Murder in the Copper Mines
by Mysterylover17
Summary: What happens when Sherlock Holmes has to solve a dangerous murder case in a small mining town in America? Will he and Watson make it out alive? Read and find out! COMPLETE! FINALLY COMPLETE!
1. Disclaimer

Disclaimer:  
I do not own the characters of Sherlock Holmes or Dr. John H. Watson M.D. They belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and I am in no way making any money from this. I also do not own Arnet Schuyler, for he was once a living person. All other characters are my own. Enjoy! ( 


	2. Prologue

**A/N: I am sorry for the delay everyone but my muse has finally returned. I am revamping this story, so I am slowly taking down and replacing all the old chapters. I promise I will update more frequantly, now that college apps are all done and I have been accepted to my first choice. I want to say thank you to my reviewers, especially those of you who have been extremely patient during this story's hiatus. Now it is back, and hopefully improved! And I will definatly continue this, so do not fear. Enough from me. Please enjoy this prologue and drop a review, letting me know what you think!**

A thick fog began to drift off the Passaic River, rapidly moving in an easterly direction, until it settled over Holy Cross Cemetery, where the whirling fingers rapidly twirled around one another, seeming to call the spirits of the dead from their graves to dance in the ever thickening and swirling mist. The swirling fingers grew more and more rapid, causing a great reduction in visibility.

Sherlock Holmes's night vision was normally acute, but the dancing and swirling mist caused him to squint his eyes and mentally curse the thickening, dancing vapor that was converging all around him. Ordinarily at night, the consulting detective had the ability to see several hundred feet in front of him, but now he could barely see anything beyond the tip of his long, angular nose. All plans had been well orchestrated, all seven members of the North Arlington Police Force were in place behind various tombstones and Sherlock Holmes was prepared to once again meet a deadly phantom from his past.

_Perhaps deadly isn't the word,_ the detective thought as his grey eyes attempting to scan the cemetery in search of his opponent; the fog made his attempt futile. _Deranged is more the word. Deranged and dangerous. _

Sherlock Holmes impatiently ground his teeth, a habit that Watson had remonstrated him for on numerous occasions. He chuckled as the tendrils of memory brushed gently against his brain; the chuckle was mirthless and wracked with pain. _Watson._ His dearest friend and Boswell, his co-habitant and confident, who had stated that he would trust Holmes with his life, had now, quite literally, placed his life in his friend's slender, ink and chemical-stained hands.

The detective irritably shook his head, attempting to push all thoughts aside save for those that were necessary to his task at that moment. The attempt however, was ineffectual. He could not help but think how in a span of a few days, his life had been so totally turned upside down. It had started off as a routine investigation, a distraught client coming to him for help, the travel across the Atlantic, the beginning of the chase. It was then things went horribly wrong. Watson had insisted on accompanying Holmes that night, despite the detective's warnings of the danger. They had been on the trail for several hours, stalking their pray. _In a strange twist of irony we became the hunted rather than the hunters_, Holmes reflected bitterly.

_The infernal fog had been just as damned thick that night. They were walking down a rather long alleyway, between two buildings on Ridge Road. Holmes had heard footsteps behind him, but his mind was so focused on the current chase that he mistakenly assumed they were Watson's. Holmes never realized that Watson's footfalls had ceased several blocks earlier. As the footsteps grew louder, Holmes had turned to remonstrate his friend for making so much noise when suddenly—_

A loud shout of pain stirred Holmes from his reverie and he squinted his eyes in attempt to peer through the thickening fog. A crash was heard off to his right, but Holmes supposed the sound was simply a ruse to disorientate him. When in the fog, sounds could easily distract someone, throw them off the path they were following and Sherlock Holmes realized he could not afford to be distracted.

As Holmes strained his ears in vain attempt to pick up any sound, the graveyard suddenly became deathly still and silent. The fog too, ceased to swirl, giving the entire scene a surreal and dreamlike cast. Perhaps the stillness was the proverbial calm before the storm, a prelude to some danger close and threatening.

Sherlock Holmes reached into the pocket of his greatcoat and removed his hair-trigger gun. He quickly opened the chamber and double checked the amount of cartridges. He had enough ammunition to squeeze off two shots, which meant he had to make every shot count. Since he was not half the marksman Watson was the detective was quite uncomfortable with the small amount of ammunition. _An oversight, but an unforgivable one._

As Holmes raised the gun to a shooting position, he heard a voice off to his left, causing him to start slightly. "Drop the gun Mister Holmes or the Doctor dies."

Sherlock Holmes turned to his left and was surprised to be confronted by two seemingly floating stormy grey eyes. It was several moments until Holmes could see the coarse-grained and greasy yellow folds of skin that surrounded the face. "You heard me Holmes," the high-pitched voice repeated. "Drop the gun and remain silent. Otherwise, Doctor Watson dies."

Holmes's mind scrambled to piece together all the information he was currently processing. He was face to face with his assailant, but was, at the moment, completely helpless. He briefly toyed with the idea to sound his police whistle, which would cause the police men to rush to his aid. However, he thought better of it. After all, it was Watson's life he was gambling for, not his own. With almost an inaudible sigh of resignation, Sherlock Holmes, keeping an eye on his antagonist at all times, placed the gun at his feet.

"Very good, very good. I am glad to see you are obedient. Now you must take three steps forward Mister Sherlock Holmes, that is, only if you want to keep your friend alive."

Thinking only of Watson's life, Holmes took a step forward and was about to take another when he heard a hoarse, pained cry followed by Watson's haggard voice. "Holmes, for God's sake don't!"

"You keep silent," he assailant said. Because of the thick fog, Holmes could not see Watson and could not see his captive clearly, but he could however hear his friend's shout of pain.

"Watson!" The name escaped Holmes's lips and he took another step forward in effort to aid his Boswell.

"I said not to make a sound Holmes!" The stormy grey eyes and yellow face rounded fiercely on the consulting detective. "If you want to save his worthless life, then you will follow my instructions to the letter. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Holmes said his voice full of venom.

"One more step Sir."

The next moment seemed to the detective as though it was something out of a nightmare. As he took the final step, he simultaneously felt a sharp, piercing pain fill the lower half of his right leg, and a great weight crash against the back of his head. As he stumbled to retain balance, the pain in his leg intensified and he felt sick. Again, he felt a heavy blow against the occipital bone of his skull, this one causing him to loose his balance.

As his head cracked against the frozen ground, he heard another strangled cry from Watson before his vision washed to black.


	3. Doctor Watson's Narrative Begins

**A/N: New and revised Chapter One! I hope you enjoy it!**

As I look over my notes from the year eighteen hundred ninety five, I find a multitude of cases that I could set before the public which would further demonstrate Sherlock Holmes's intellectual prowess. Indeed, some of which I might publish at a later date, such as the sinister case of young Cadogan West's murder and the missing submarine plans. However that particular case was of international import and my pen must remain idle for some years in regards to that investigation.

The case I am about to set down is, what Holmes considers his 'most inept moment.' I however, disagree with him on that point. The case was by far, the most challenging and dangerous of his illustrious career. The investigation took us across the Atlantic Ocean to a small town where we witnessed the dangers of a man whose mind is poisoned by revenge first hand. We were forced to endure the madness of an old antagonist and Holmes was forced to decide whether my life was more important than justice and his own.

I remember the day we began the queer adventure as though it was yesterday. It was a sunny spring morning in the years eighteen hundred ninety five. The sun shone brightly through the windows of our Baker Street flat and glinted off the unused silver on the breakfast table. It was truly a day to lighten the hearts of the London populace after such a dreadful and gloomy winter. The morning was one that could put any man in the best of spirits, save Holmes.

The great detective sat moodily at his charred chemical bench, muttering angrily under his breath in French. He was in low spirits for his work had been extremely limited as f late and he was suffering from one of his many bouts of ennui. He refused to speak with me, save when he lamented about the dullness of criminal activity and my attempts to draw him into conversation were futile, being met by a sardonic barb. I fervently hoped some form of mental stimulation would come his way, for I feared the siren call of his syringe would lure him once again into the deadly clutches of cocaine.

The constant murmurings in French, accompanied by the clattering of beakers began to grate on my nerves and I rustled my copy of the Times loudly in attempt to attract the attention of my friend and fellow lodger.

"Holmes," I said when my paper failed to draw his attention from the bubbling beakers on the bench, "I say Holmes."

"What?" His tone was extremely clipped as he lifted a test tube from its rack. He stubbornly refused to face me.

"It's quite a lovely morning."

"Allow me to congratulate you on a brilliant bit of deduction," he said acridly.

I refused to let his sarcasm deter me. I was going to somehow engage him in a conversation or remove him from our rooms. "Why don't we go for a stroll 'round Hyde Park? We can take advantage of the sudden warm and very much welcomed weather." As if to punctuate my words, a balmy breeze blew in through one of our open windows, kissing my face with the gentleness of a wanton lover.

"I fail to see what purpose that would serve," was his laconic reply. "I cannot believe in all of London, in all of England for that matter, there is not a problem worthy of my services! The criminal world is decidedly dull. It is times like this when I actually regret killing Moriarty."

"Now Holmes you cannot mean"

"I can and I do Watson. Without Moriarty, crime in London is an exceedingly mundane enterprise."

"Come, come Holmes," I replied setting aside my paper. "Things are not all that bad."

"That is because you are a bloody optimist."

I chuckled at his candid observation and received from him a frosty stare which has, in the past, caused many a man to whither. "Holmes you are a very keen observer."

"Your attempts at flattery do not cajole me," he replied bitterly.

I ignored his comment. "Even such a keen observer as yourself could not have failed to notice the positive effects the shortage of crime has had on our society. Why, just the other day, while I was making my rounds, I noted more women walking the Strand without male escorts. I would rather suffer a little boredom and know our work has made the streets safer for…" my words died in my throat when I saw my friend's reaction to them.

Sherlock Holmes was infuriated. In his rage, he jumped to his feet, violently jarring the contents on his chemical bench, causing several of the boiling liquids to spill onto both himself and Mrs. Hudson's fine wine colored carpet. The consulting detective swore angrily.

Seeing the boiling liquids spill onto my friend, I instantly sprang to my feet and ushered him into a chair, my medical instants were all aroused.

"Watson don't you ever say that again!" Be barked as I tried to ease the pain of a livid red burn that was quickly spreading across the top of his hand. "Half of our rent is based on the crime rate. Are you honestly that dense?"

"I do not care what our rent is based on," I retorted angrily. I grabbed his burnt hand with which he was gesticulating wildly, and pinned it against his lap. "I do wish you would keep your hand still!"

He muttered something unintelligible and I continued to wrap a bandage around his wounded appendage. "There," I said when I successfully bandaged his hand. "That will keep the burn covered to prevent any infection. You must really be careful Holmes."

The detective was on the verge of making, what I am sure would have been a scathing comment, when he was interrupted by a knock at our door.

I rose from my perch on the floor, where I was attending to Holmes's injuries and answered it. It was our landlady Mrs. Hudson, carrying the silver tray which a calling card placed neatly on it. "I am sorry to interrupt you gentlemen, but there is a lady downstairs wanting to see Mister Holmes. She says it is very urgent."

"You may show her up Mrs. Hudson," I replied quickly.

The landlady nodded and looked past me. She saw the acid from the spill burning a hold into her carpet as well as Holmes cradling his injured hand. "Good Lord!" She muttered quietly. "Is everything all right? Mister Holmes, are you hurt?"

The consulting detective ignored his landlady's question and posed one of his own. "Mrs. Hudson, would you mind showing the lady up? I am most anxious to hear what she has to say."

I escorted Mrs. Hudson into the hallway and attempted to reassure her that everything was all right. "Everything is fine Mrs. Hudson," I said in my physician's voice. Although Sherlock Holmes disliked and distrusted women, he always treated them chivalrously and Mrs. Hudson had the utmost respect for her famed lodger. "Holmes simply had a small chemical accident, much worse than it seems. Most of the acid missed his hand."

"Oh thank Heavens for that Doctor," she said earnestly. "You know what a terrible patient he is."

I nodded in agreement. "And I will pay for any damage to your carpet."

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand impatiently. "Do not worry yourself Doctor Watson. As long as both you and Mister Holmes are well, I am not concerned about the carpet. I shall go downstairs and show the lady up."

"Thank you very much Mrs. Hudson," I replied, squeezing the woman's shoulder in a friendly manner. When I saw Mrs. Hudson disappear down the seventeen steps, I returned to the sitting room to find Sherlock Holmes standing by the hearth, lighting his pipe with his good hand. When he heard me close the door, he looked up at me and our eyes met. We stood for several seconds staring at one another, when he gave an apologetic smile and resumed his chair.

"Do you intend to leave that mess on the floor Holmes?"

The detective nodded. "There is no time to clean it now Watson. I shall take care of it later."


	4. Holmes Hears the Case

I opened my mouth to reply, but I was stopped when a beautiful young woman entered our sitting room. She was statuesque, with long blond hair that fell and framed her pale, slender face. Her nervous violet eyes darted about the room until they rested earnestly on my face.

"Mr. Holmes?" She asked, her delicate voice held an American accent, but it quavered slightly from fear.

"No, I am Dr. Watson," I said taking her china-doll hand in one of my own and bringing it briefly to my lips. "That," I gestured toward the figure curled in an armchair, "is Sherlock Holmes."

A slight blush rose to her cheeks, accenting her already high cheekbones. "I am so sorry," she said with a slight smile. "I should have known. Do forgive me."

"There is no need for forgiveness Mrs. Verne," the great detective said rising languidly from his chair to greet his client. "It is a common error. Pray have a seat and tell us of your trouble, for you must be exhausted from your long journey from America."

Our client was completely taken aback as she collapsed into the chair Holmes proffered. "How do you know that?"

My closest friend chuckled softly. "I will explain in good time Mrs. Verne. But it is more important for you to tell us the reason for your pilgrimage across the Atlantic Ocean to consult me."

"Well Mr. Holmes, I am, as you so cleverly guessed from the United States. I live in a small town, North Arlington, in the state of New Jersey. The town itself is roughly one square mile in area and the majority of it is copper mines, owned by Mr. Arnet Schuyler. The mines employ about two thirds of the male population; my husband is included in that figure."

"Mrs. Verne, while I find this very interesting, I fail to see what it has to do with your current plight," Holmes said irritably.  
A slight blush rose to Mrs. Verne's pale cheeks and my heart instantly went out to her. My friend was certainly not behaving with his usual chivalry.

"I do apologize, Mr. Holmes. My husband told me that I can often get carried away with details. I live on Avon Place, which is almost directly next to the Schuyler Copper Mines. I came here because of a shocking and terrifying discovery," she paused a moment to collect her thoughts. "The following events happened over two weeks ago, but they remain clear and vivid in my mind.

'It was a Friday night, and my husband William, who usually comes home from his mining between seven and eight o'clock in the evening, had not yet returned. It was not unusual for him to be late, but when our living room clock chimed nine thirty, I began to worry. I grabbed my coat from the rack near the door and hurried out of the house in search of my husband.

'I decided to take the short-cut to the mines by climbing down a small ridge that is next to my house. When I reached the bottom of the ridge, instead of seeing the usual bustle of miners, there was no one in sight. Finding this extremely unusual, I proceeded to walk deeper into the mines where I accosted a solitary miner walking in my general direction. I inquired as to everyone's' whereabouts and he informed me that everyone was near the Victoria Shaft.

'Knowing my way around the copper mines, I proceeded past the Open Quarry until I reached the Victoria Shaft, where I saw a crowd of miners standing in a circle peering into the darkness, attempting to see what was going on three-hundred forty seven feet below them."

"I'm sorry to interrupt you Mrs. Verne," the detective said with a ghost of a smile, "but can you please describe the layout of the copper mines?"

She giggled; her laugh was lilting and infectious. "My husband warned me never to try and explain the layout of anything to anyone because he felt I would surely confuse them. I did have to foresight to bring the map of the copper mines my husband gave me." She handed the map to my friend, which I have copied here for the reader's benefit.

Holmes studied it momentarily and then told our client to continue.

"I walked to where the men were standing and found my husband's close friend Joseph O'Henry. I asked him what was going on.

'"Billy is down in the Victoria Shaft," he said.

'"Is he hurt," I asked.

'"You're husband is fine Sandra. He just found something strange."

'"What did he find?"

'Joseph was about to reply when my husband came to the surface, covered in dirt and mud. He smiled at me and then motioned for Joseph to go back down with him. About a half hour later, both my husband and Joseph returned to the mouth of the shaft carrying something between them. I was to far back at the time to see what it was, so I pushed my way through the throng of miners to get to my husband. When I was at his side, I saw what they were holding," she stopped suddenly as if remembering was too much for her.

"Mrs. Verne, are you going to be all right?" I asked suddenly fearing for her health.

She smiled slightly. "Yes, thank you Dr. Watson, I'll be fine. My husband had found a skeleton. Parts of rotting flesh still clung to the bones and its face, if I can even call it a face, was contorted in complete horror. I have never seen anything so ghastly in my entire life.

'Mr. Holmes, I need you to find out how the man died. I know it wasn't from a shaft collapse or anything of that sort because his face spoke of horrors far worse," our client concluded.

Sherlock Holmes stared into the fire for a long time after our client finished speaking. Blue rings of smoke chased each other up to the ceiling and then disappeared followed by others from the detective's oily black briar pipe.

"Mrs. Verne, there is something you are not tell me, something which is vitally important. I can only help you if you are frank with me. I suggest you tell me the real reason you wish Watson and I to travel across the Atlantic. The trivial problem of the skeleton can undoubtedly be solved by the local police, no matter how incompetent they may be," he said, his voice grave.

Mrs. Verne seemed to age before my very eyes as she nodded, showing Sherlock Holmes that his deductions were indeed correct. She lowered her gaze from the detective's lean, anxious face and studied her hands for some time. "You are correct of course," she said taking a deep trembling breath. "There is something that I did not tell you and it is because I believed if I did not mention it, it would not have happened. Dear God, these last two weeks have been like a nightmare from which I cannot waken."

"Pray tell us what is troubling you Mrs. Verne," the consulting detective said at length.

Our client took another deep breath, in effort to calm her nerves which seemed to be strained to their breaking point after relating the first part of her narrative.

"Can you continue Mrs. Verne?" I asked, once again concerned for her welfare.

She nodded. "A week after my husband found the skeleton, I was invited to a party one of my dear friends was throwing. I was worried about leaving Bill alone for a length of time, because he had been extremely reticent after his gruesome discovery. He assured me however that he would be fine and told me he was inviting Joseph over for a drink. With a hug from him, I left for my party with a light heart. When I returned home, it was near eleven thirty, an hour later than I intended to stay; I walked into our home, anxious to tell Bill of our dinner invitation the following evening with the Smiths. When I entered the sitting room I saw Bill lying on the sofa." she suddenly broke down crying.

Sherlock Holmes rose from his arm chair and knelt on the floor in front of her. He took her hands in his good one and stroked them gently, while speaking soothing words of comfort to her. My friend had an amazing gift that I wished he would employ more often; the gift of easing people's nerves and comforting them, making them feel completely relaxed.

In a few moments, Mrs. Verne was in full control of her emotions and Holmes resumed his chair.

"When you are ready you may continue," he said closing his eyes and slouching in his chair.

"I am very sorry Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, but I cannot cope with the truth. When I turned up the gas, I found my husband lying on the sofa, a look of sheer horror spread across his features. I knelt next to him and went to take his hand but recoiled when his skin felt like ice under my touch. It was then I realized he was dead. I immediately sent for the police but they could shed no light on my husband's death. I instructed them to leave the body where I found it and to touch nothing until I could consult you."

Holmes once again gazed into the fire. The burning and crackling embers reflected in his grey eyes giving him and ominous appearance. When he spoke, his voice was low and solemn. "These are very deep waters; you were wise to consult me. How soon can Watson and I be in America?"  
"If you leave tonight, in five days I believe. I can book us a passage on the seven o'clock boat to New York City."

"Excellent," my friend said rising from his chair. He quickly strode over to the door and threw it open, clearly showing that the interview was finished. "You are to meet Watson and me back here at six thirty. Understand?"

She nodded, and much to my friend's chagrin made no move to vacate the chair she was occupying. "Mister Holmes, you have yet to tell me how you knew my name and that I was from America, before I said a word to you."

"Simplicity in itself," Holmes said, his brief dismissal of our client was quickly forgotten, when she asked him to explain his methods to her. I have noted elsewhere that Sherlock Holmes was as susceptible to flattery regarding his intelligence and methods as any young girl who was complimented on her beauty, and this was no exception.

'Your outfit, although made from the best material, shows heavy wrinkles, undoubtedly caused from travel. Your clothing is not covered with the black soot which is extremely common to train travel, nor do your boots have any clay accumulation on the soles which would suggest you traveled from the country in a dogcart.  
'I asked myself how, save by boat, could a woman who obviously traveled for a length of time, arrive at my doorstep looking, although tired, exceptionally clean? The answer was simple. Your clothing is American cut, hence the second half of my deduction that you were American.

'On the inside of your collar, there is the name 'Sandra Verne,' written in black pen. Since I have never heard of a designer by that name I simply inferred that 'Sandra Verne' was indeed your name."

Mrs. Verne smiled and stood in front of Holmes in the doorway. "You certainly exceed your reputation. Thank you very much Mr. Holmes, I feel as though a great weight has been lifted off my shoulders."

The detective made no reply and I showed Mrs. Verne out.

"Well Watson," my friend said when we were alone in our rooms. "What do you make of it?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "I don't know what to make of it Holmes. At least this will keep your mind busy for awhile."

"I think," he said exchanging his purple dressing-gown for his Invertness cape. "I'll do a little research on the copper mines."

"Fine by me Holmes, but where are you going?"

"The London Library old fellow."

I watched my friend leave and then began the tedious task of straightening our sitting room.

Holmes and I resumed our conversation again about four o'clock that afternoon. He wanted to fill me in on the information he found about the copper mines.

"I found quite a bit of information Watson," he said taking off his invertness cape. He reached into one of his pockets and removed several pieces of foolscap neatly tied together with a piece of string. "The London Library had more information on the subject than I expected."

"Tell me what you found Holmes."


	5. The Investigation Begins

The detective cleared his throat and slouched down in his chair before beginning. "It seems Watson, the copper mines were discovered in seventeen hundred fourteen by a man named Arnet Schuyler. Mining began in seventeen hundred fifteen."

"How did mining begin?"

Holmes picked up more of the foolscap and began searching for the answer to my question. "Ah, here it is! In seventeen hundred fourteen, Arnet Schuyler was approached by an elderly slave who worked on his property. The slave held a piece of greenish blue rock which he found on Schuyler's property. Schuyler sent the rock to England and the report returned saying the rock was eighty percent pure copper.

'Seeing the opportunity for a great deal of money, Schuyler decided to mine the area to see if more copper could be found."

"Very interesting Holmes," I said almost certain he had more information for me. "What else did you find?"

Holmes shook his head. "Nothing of interest old fellow; merely some trivial facts regarding the Victoria Shaft."

"Isn't that where Mrs. Verne's husband found the skeleton?"

Sherlock Holmes favored me with a sardonic smile. "Well done Watson! I am happy to learn your memory has not failed you

I chose to ignore his sarcasm. "What did you learn about the Victoria Shaft? Any bit of information could be important."

"I suppose I could enlighten you," he said indolently. "Before I say anything further, please make a long arm and hand me my cigarettes and those matches on the table, there's a good fellow."

I handed him the cigarettes and offered to light one for him, fearing his attempts would do further injury to his hand.

"I am not a complete invalid Watson," he said with some asperity. After a few seconds of struggle, Holmes successfully lit a cigarette and inhaled its smoke gratefully.

"In eighteen hundred sixty five, a pump broke and the entire shaft filled with water. The majority of the miners fled, leaving their tools behind. There were of course some casualties, but they were minimal. The shaft was abandoned until eighteen hundred ninety two."

"Holmes, could that accident have killed the unfortunate man whose remains Mrs. Verne's husband found?"

The detective shook his head, his eyes glittering with amusement. "I highly doubt it Watson. You will care to remember that Mrs. Verne said parts of rotting flesh still clung to the bones and its face was contorted in an expression of extreme agony and fear. No, I fear this man, whoever he may be, met his death elsewhere.  
'I sense an underlying malice in this problem Watson. The waters we are about to wade through will be extremely deep and murky."

A slight chill of fear ran down my spine at my friend's cryptic statement. "Do you think I should bring my revolver?"

"You'd be a fool if you didn't," the detective replied, his voice grave. "We are venturing into uncharted territory old friend and if my deductions are correct we will be dealing with a most formidable opponent."

As if the gods above agreed with Holmes's enigmatic statement, a strong gust of wind blew through the open window, chilling me to the bone. I had the strangest sense of fear for my friend, a fear that I could not fully comprehend.

In attempt to shake off the feeling of foreboding which was quickly engulfing me, I got to my feet and consulted my pocket watch. "Holmes it is five o'clock. Shouldn't we begin to pack?"

The detective nodded and disappeared into his room. I too left the sitting room and hurried to my bedroom in attempt to leave the coldness behind. I packed a bag which in addition to clothing and my toothbrush contained a more condensed version of my black medical bag. Before leaving my room, I went to the top drawer of my bureau and removed my service revolver which had served us well on many occasions, as well as some extra cartridges. I slipped the gun along with the extra ammunition into my bag and rejoined Sherlock Holmes in the sitting room.

A few minutes prior to six thirty, Mrs. Verne appeared in our sitting room once more, clad in fresh clothes and looking more beautiful than ever.

"Gentlemen, I do hope I am not late," she said softly.

"No, not at all Mrs. Verne, in fact you are several minutes early," I replied.

"Then let us not waste any more time," Holmes said grabbing his coat and carpetbag. He hurried down the stairs and called for a cab.

"After you Mrs. Verne," I said stepping aside so she could pass.

With one final glace around the sitting room, I stepped into the hall and closed the door firmly behind me, anxious to share another one of Sherlock Holmes's adventures.

Our boat journey to New York City was uneventful. Upon boarding the boat, Sherlock Holmes entered the stateroom we shared and spread several books, of various subjects on the floor, indicating that he had no intention of leaving the cabin until we reached port.

I spent my days walking the decks with Mrs. Verne on my arm. Despite the current emotional strain she was under, Mrs. Sandra Verne was delightful company, always ready for good conversation and a stroll across the deck, informing me of the wonders of the United States and describing the lifestyle of New York City.

"Doctor Watson look!" Mrs. Verne said, pointing over the rail. I followed her gaze and was surprised to see the Statue of Liberty in all her glory standing tall, not fifty meters away from us.

"Lady Liberty Watson, surely you recognize her?"

I jumped slightly when I heard Holmes's voice at my elbow. I turned around at saw him leaning against one of the smoke stacks, arms folded across his chest and a look of arrogance written on his features.

"Mister Holmes it is good to see you again," Mrs. Verne said to my friend. "I was beginning to fear you were not enjoying the crossing."

"Watson can tell you that I rarely find any pleasure in traveling," was the detective's curt reply. "I just wanted to inform you that we will be docking in a few moments. I suggest everyone gathers their belongings," he said, disappearing as quickly as he came.

I shook my head and apologized for my friend's behavior. "He does not enjoy being uprooted from his comfortable London atmosphere. Travel is a curse to him," I said with a smile, "he finds it extremely dull, without any of the excitement that he is accustomed."

Mrs. Verne smiled and allowed her hand to linger on the sleeve of my jacket. "You do not have to apologize for Mr. Holmes," she said gently. "I am indebted to you both for coming to my aid on such short notice."

"It is our pleasure Mrs. Verne," I said taking her arm in mine. With my free hand I removed my pocket watch and consulted it. "This way," I said gently leading her away from the ship's rail. "You should pack your things before we dock."

I led our client to her cabin and watched her enter the door. I could not help but notice her pleasant womanly figure and the way she tilted her head to the side when she laughed. With a sigh, I hurried to the cabin I shared with Holmes.

"Watson, I would appreciate it if you would stop attempting to court our client," he said, not bothering to look up from the book he was reading.  
I felt my face catch fire and immediately cast my eyes downward. "Holmes! How can you accuse me of that?"

My friend chuckled slightly and closed his book, observing me keenly with his steel grey eyes. "My dear Watson, what save the siren call of a woman, could take you from my side? I have seen the ardent light in your eyes whenever she comes near. I would appreciate it however, if while I am working you would cease your attempts to make love to her."

I cleared my throat in effort to rid myself of the feeling of discomfort and embarrassment that was quickly engulfing me. I made a great show of crossing the tiny room and opening my carpet bag. In a few moments, with military precision, all the belongings I had taken aboard were neatly packed.

"Come along Watson," Holmes said lifting his own bag. He threw open the door and leaned in the doorway, keeping his eyes on me. "We do not want to keep the woman of your affections waiting."

I ignored his comment and followed him to the deck, where we were to meet Mrs. Verne. True to her word, she was waiting for us at the designated place. A young man was speaking with her and I could not help but feel a stab of jealousy in my heart.

"Mrs. Verne," Holmes said, quickly approaching the lady.

"Oh hello Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson! This is Aaron," she said introducing us to her new companion.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," the detective said amiably, pumping the hand of the red-haired, slightly built man. "This is my colleague and associate, Doctor Watson."

"Nice ta meet'cha," he said grasping my hand with strength that I could hardly give him credit for. "I'm Aaron Schuyler; I am in charge of the copper mines where Mrs. Verne's husband worked. Have you gentlemen ever been to New York City before?"

I shook my head and chatted genially with him until the ship finally pulled into the port, known as Ellis Island. We bid Mr. Schuyler farewell and walked down the gang plank, carpet bags in hand.The port was bustling, with people attempting to obtain their luggage and my ears were assaulted with the many tongues heard in Ellis Island.

Since we were not moving to the country, Holmes and I were not detained for any length of time by the customs officials. After threading our way through the throng of immigrants, Mrs. Verne hailed a hansom cab. Once we boarded the cab, the cabbie whipped up the horses and we were headed to yet another adventure.

Mrs. Verne and I passed the hansom ride chatting idly, neither of us concerned with what each other was saying.

Iwas chagrined to see a change come over Mrs. Verne. As she stared at the passing scenery, her face paled and she grew more and more reticent until it was nearly impossible to get a word out of her.

Holmes too, was silent. The far-away look in his eyes told me he was in deep concentration and did not want to be disturbed.

When the cab finally stopped, Mrs. Verne was trembling. Holmes alighted, leaving me inside with our client.

"Doctor," she said, wiping a stray tear from her eyes with a trembling hand. "What you must think of me."

My heart cleaved in two when I saw her fighting such inner turmoil. As was expected from women at the time, Mrs. Verne attempted to hide her sadness and appear outwardly strong. Acting on impulse, rather than sense, I cupped her face with my hand and very slowly turned her head until we were eye level. With my thumb, I wiped away the tears that were leaking from her eyes.

"I think you are extremely brave Mrs. Verne. Not many women could handle the emotions you are experiencing. Yet, despite your pain, you knew enough to consult the one man who can avenge your husband. There is no need to put on false airs with us Mrs. Verne."

My words had their desired effect and Mrs. Verne seemed more at ease. She put her hand atop of mine and held it against her cheek. She stared deep into my eyes and suddenly her face flushed. "You are much too kind Doctor."

I smiled and removed her hand from mine. I swallowed and attempted to keep my ever racing pulse at bay. "Do you think it is at all possible for you to alight from the cab?"

Hesitantly she nodded and I took her arm and helped her from the hansom.

When we were standing outside, Mrs. Verne's eyes darted around and her face paled considerably. A slight wind whipped up, causing our client to shiver. Silent tears of grief cascaded down her face and her body shook slightly from suppressed sobs.

I was at a loss of what to do. Words were inadequate, for none I could think of would comfort the distraught woman. I did the only thing a man of my position could do. I took her hand and squeezed it gently. The gesture seemed to be somewhat comforting to her, for she turned to me and our eyes met and a forced smile of gratitude appeared on her face.

The moment was broken when Sherlock Holmes stepped onto the front porch and his strident voice called my name, signaling that he needed my assistance indoors.

"Will you be all right by yourself Mrs. Verne?" I asked, extremely concerned for her welfare.

She nodded and put on a brave face. "Yes, thank you Doctor."

I squeezed her hand once more and then hurried to where my dearest friend was standing.

"What is it Holmes?" I asked when I reached his side.

"I do apologize for interrupting your time with our client," he said dryly, "but I do need your assistance."

I ignored his snide remark and raised my eyebrows quizzically. "How can I help you Holmes?"

"By refreshing my memory. When Mrs. Verne came to Baker Street, did she or did she not inform us that the police were instructed to leave everything untouched, including the body of her late husband?"

"She did Holmes." I will confess that I was extremely puzzled by his strange question.

"That is what I thought," he said opening the door that led into the house. "Come along Watson."

With a glance back at Mrs. Verne, I followed the detective into the darkened house, bracing myself for the smell of decay. When I entered the house, I was surprised by the absence of any odor. I was going to question my friend on the subject, but something in his mannerism told me to keep my silence. We stopped in the sitting room where Holmes struck a match.

"If memory serves me correctly, Mrs. Verne said she discovered her husband's body here," he said pointing to the sofa. His voice was soft, meaning he was speaking more to himself than to me. "However, there is no corpse in sight."

The match was burning steadily and when it neared his fingers he shook it out and lit another. "I have made a preliminary search of the home but have found no cadaver. That indicates that the body was removed from the premises."

I could hold my silence no longer. "This is damning Holmes. Who would enter a home and remove a body, who would want to?"

"That my dear Watson," he said lighting another match, "is what we must find out. However," he said navigating his way over to the sofa, "whoever it was, knew of our involvement in the case."

"What the devil are you talking about?"

"Here," he said gently lifting a sheet of paper. "Read this old fellow and tell me what you make of it."  
He handed me the document and held the match high enough for me to see the print. "Dear Lord," I ejaculated when I finished reading. "Someone has threatened your life."

"So it would appear," he replied with a dry chuckle. "This is indeed a pretty little problem."

"Holmes this threat sounds serious," I said, allowing my eyes to once again skim the handwriting on the paper.

The detective shrugged his slender shoulders and instructed me to bring Mrs. Verne inside. "Watson, do not waste time attempting to soften the blow to the woman. Just bring her in."

Once again I was forced to ignore my friend's satirical mannerism. I headed out the door and stepped into the cool night air.

"Mrs. Verne?" I said, hurrying down the porch steps. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with fright. "Mrs. Verne, would you come inside for a moment?"

She paled and suddenly fainted. I managed to catch her before she hit the ground. I gently lifted her and carried her into the house, noticing for the first time how thin and light she was. When I entered the sitting room, carrying Mrs. Verne, Holmes looked at me with amusement in his grey eyes.

"I see what your charms do to the fair sex Watson," he said, pointing at me with the stem of his pipe. "They seem to swoon into your arms."

"Holmes, this is no joking matter," I said harshly. I moved to the sofa with the intention of lying Mrs. Verne upon it, when Holmes grasped me roughly by the shoulder.

"What the devil?"

"You will not put her there Watson," he said, his voice serious. "Not unless you want her dead."

"What?" I raised my eyebrows in surprise.

"Put her down, somewhere, and then I will show you."

I very gently placed Mrs. Verne on one of the chairs, attempting to make her as comfortable as possible. Once she was out of my arms, I made to leave the sitting room, in attempt to find some brandy which would revive her.

"Watson what are you doing?" Holmes asked, eyeing me keenly.

"I'm searching for brandy, to revive our client," I replied.

Holmes snorted with contempt. "Yes of course Watson, allow her siren call to wrest you from my side." He was annoyed, my attention being focused more on the unconscious woman then on him.

I ignored my friend and made a quick search of the kitchen. There I found a decanter of brandy and a glass. After pouring some of the amber spirits into a tumbler, I returned to the sitting room and held Mrs. Verne's head up while I poured the brandy down her throat.

After a few moments, she coughed and sputtered reflexively and she very slowly opened her eyelids. Her gaze was foggy and for a moment I feared her fall left her with a concussion. However, my fears were put to rest when she blinked several times and her eyes cleared. When she realized what had happened, she blushed fiercely.  
"Gentlemen, I am so sorry, I do not know what came over me."

"Doctor Watson has a tendency to make women fall to the floor when they see him," the detective said dryly.

I felt myself color and turned around to challenge my friend. "Holmes, how dare you! Of all the..."

He raised a hand to silence me. "I do apologize, old fellow. Now, if you approve, I would like to show you what I have discovered."

Curiosity got the better of me and I closed the space between Holmes and myself in three strides. Once we were standing shoulder to should in front of the sofa, my friend reached down, next to the letter and gingerly lifted something.

When he brought it to the light, I realized that he was holding a needle point, the end covered in what appeared to be a black substance.

"I would not touch that if I were you Watson," he said when I made a move to examine the substance on the needlepoint. "I have reason to believe that it is poisoned."

"Good Lord," I cried, immediately dropping my hand. "Who..."

"Whoever wrote that note, Watson wanted to make sure that I took his threat seriously. He, yes Watson, the handwriting is certainly masculine, wanted to eliminate me before I could look into Mrs. Verne's problem. The waters are much deeper than I originally thought."

"Mr. Holmes, Doctor Watson, what on earth are you talking about?" Mrs. Verne asked when she came round completely.

"Someone has threatened my life Madame," Holmes said, gingerly wrapping the needle in paper and inserting it in an envelope. "Do you have any idea who might have done so?"

"No," Mrs. Verne said, her eyes scanning the small room. "Mr. Holmes, where is my husband?" I could not help but notice her voice trembled as she asked her question.

"Mrs. Verne, I regret to inform you that your husband's body is no longer under this roof," my friend said, lighting his pipe. "Do you know where it might have gone?"

Our client shook her head. "No, I haven't the slightest idea. Perhaps the police removed it?"

Holmes shook his head in the negative. He lifted the note and handed it to Mrs. Verne. "Do you recognize the handwriting?"

"No."

"Interesting," Holmes said taking a pull at his pipe. "Can you tell me if he had any enemies?"

"No."

Holmes's interrogation went on well into the night. My friend continued to rattle off questions, not giving our client time to think. This was his way of discovering if a client was lying.

About three o'clock in the morning, when Mrs. Verne was looking extremely worn, I forced Holmes to cease his relentless tirade of questions. "Really Holmes," I admonished, "you are being extremely rude. Mrs. Verne has had a trying day and needs to rest."

"Thank you Doctor," our client said, favoring me with a tired smile.

"One more question Mrs. Verne and then you may retire," Holmes said, knocking out the ashes of his pipe into the fireplace. "Did your husband keep any secrets from you Mrs. Verne?"

The question startled the woman. She stared at Holmes keenly for several seconds before answering. "No, I don't believe so. William never had any reason to keep anything from me."

"Thank you very much Mrs. Verne," Holmes said pocketing his pipe. "Now, if you can tell Watson and I were to find decent lodgings..."

"You gentlemen will stay here for the duration of your investigation," Mrs. Verne said firmly. "I have two spare bedrooms and I would feel much safer having someone else in the house."

"Thank you very much for your hospitality Mrs. Verne," I said, attempting unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"It is my pleasure," she said laying an arm on my sleeve. "Come gentlemen, I will show you to your rooms."

"Yes, please show the good doctor to his boudoir," Holmes said, reaching into his pocket to remove his pouch of shag tobacco. "I shall stay here for awhile. Goodnight Watson, Mrs. Verne."

I bid my friend goodnight and followed Mrs. Verne up a flight of stairs to one of the spare bedrooms.

"I hope you will be comfortable Doctor Watson," Mrs. Verne said, turning up the gas in my room. "I know it is not very spacious..."

I looked around the Spartan quarters and nodded, reminding myself that I had slept in tighter spaces when I served in the Queen's Army. "I shall be fine, thank you Mrs. Verne."

She lingered in the doorway for several seconds, her eyes resting on her wringing hands. She was obviously in great distress and needed to talk.  
"Mrs. Verne, are you all right?"

My voice seemed to startle her, for she started slightly. A blush rose to her cheeks when she gazed into my concern filled eyes. "Doctor, I want to ask you something," she began.

I perched on the edge of the bed and motioned for her to sit in the well-worn chair opposite. She declined my offer of the chair and sat next to me on the bed.

"I don't mean to make you feel uncomfortable Doctor Watson," she said when she saw me tense. "It's just that I have felt so alone..." she leaned against me and rested her head on my shoulder. The weight on my shoulder felt strangely comforting and it was then that I realized how much I missed my dear Mary and her womanly charms.

"Mrs. Verne, if you need to talk to me about something," I said, feeling slightly uncomfortable in the compromising position I found myself in.

She sighed and straightened, moving away from me. "Doctor Watson," she took my hand in hers and held it for comfort. "I have this lingering doubt which is nagging at my brain."

"What is the matter?"

She took a deep breath and gently squeezed my hand. "I have doubts about Mr. Holmes's abilities. Please, do not misunderstand me," she said quickly. Even as she attempted to rectify her words, I felt my face cloud and a feeling of anger rush through me. No one ever admitted that they doubted my friend's ability within my earshot.

"Please Doctor Watson, I know he is known for his intelligence and his detection abilities throughout the world, but I doubt his ability to solve my problem. He has never been in my town; he does not know anything about me or my late husband. Do you honestly think he is capable of helping me?"

The amount of insecurity and fear in her voice erased the anger I was feeling. I stroked the top of her hand and smiled reassuringly. "My dear Mrs. Verne," I said, using my physician's tone, "I have put trust and life in his hands on more than one occasion. I have seen him untangle the most difficult problems, ones that hardly had any clues to follow. I do not doubt that he will bring your problem to a satisfactory conclusion."  
Mrs. Verne squeezed my hand and then released it and stood up. She smiled at me. "Thank you Doctor, you have put my fears to rest. I was wrong for doubting him. Goodnight."

"Goodnight Mrs. Verne," I said watching her exit my room. Once she was gone I stood and closed the door and took the liberty of filling the small dresser with my belongings. Having done that, I quickly changed for bed and slipped between the coarse sheets. Despite my fatigue, I could not fall asleep easily. I tossed and turned, my mind attempting to make sense out of the circumstances that Holmes and I found ourselves in.


	6. A Deadly conversation

I must have finally fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, I was roughly being shaken awake. "Watson! Watson wake up!"

"What the devil?" I slowly opened my eyes and saw the gaunt figure of my friend standing fully dressed beside my bed. His bandaged hand held a candle and I could see by his haggard features that he had not slept at all. "What is it Holmes?"

"I am sorry to have knocked you up Watson," he said, setting the candle on the small table beside my bed, "but there is much to do today and I would like to get an early start."

"What time is it?" I asked, throwing the covers off me.

He consulted his pocket watch. "It is a quarter after five."

I sighed, realizing that I had less than two hours sleep. "What is so urgent that we must...?"

"Watson," there was a familiar touch of impatience in his voice, "I have much to do today and I would be obliged if you would accompany me."

Once again I sighed and hurriedly dressed once my friend vacated my room. A few moments later, I joined my friend in Mrs. Verne's sitting room.

"Ah Watson! How good it is to see you wide-eyed and awake," he said lifting a white porcelain mug and handing it to me. "Here old man, have some coffee, it will help wake you."

I took the cup from my friend and drained it in a few gulps. He was correct as usual, I felt much better after the coffee. "Where are we going Holmes?" I asked as we stepped outside into the cool spring air.

My friend said nothing and removed a folded sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket. It took me a moment to realize it was the very map Mrs. Verne had given him in Baker Street.

"What do you hope to accomplish at the copper mines Holmes?"

"I would like to see where the skeleton was discovered, and I would like to speak with some of the miners, to get to know more about Mr. William Verne."  
"How do you propose to get to the copper mines?"

Holmes consulted the map and then pointed to our left. "There is a ridge over there. It we climb down it, I should be near the main drain tunnel, a little ways from the Victoria Shaft."

I followed my friend to the edge of the ridge and then peered over the edge. "It looks steep old man."

Holmes nodded. "Yes, but I do not think it will be a treacherous climb." He then looked at my leg and offered me a half-smile. "Do you think your injury will sustain a climb old man or should I go alone?"

"I will be fine Holmes," I said with some asperity.

He nodded and began his descent. When he reached the bottom he motioned for me to follow him. I reached the bottom with less ease than my friend, for I stumbled and lost my footing several times.

My friend consulted the map once again. "If we walk in a northerly direction we should come upon the Victoria Shaft in a few minutes." He started walking at a brisk pace and I was obliged to jog to keep up with him.

When we were about half way to the Victoria Shaft, we were accosted by a rough looking man. He was a good head taller than I and much more muscular. His face was framed with shaggy red hair and his green eyes stared at us with unease so familiar to strangers to a foreign land.

"'Ere now! What are ya doin' here?"

"I do apologize," Holmes said, "we seemed to have lost our way. We are looking for the Victoria Shaft."

"Why do ya wanna get ta that thar shaft?" He asked roughly.

"We are looking into the matter of a skeleton, which was found here not two weeks ago."

The mention of the skeleton, the man turned on my friend. "What business is that o' yers? Who are ya?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes, a private consulting detective from London. This," Holmes said pointing to me, "is my friend and colleague Doctor Watson. We are here on behalf of Mrs. Sandra Verne. Who, might I ask, are you?"

"You workin' fer Sandra?" The man asked, unable to hide the skeptism in his voice.

My friend nodded. "Yes, we are looking into the death of her husband. Did you know him?"

"Righty I did. Bill was me best fr'end. I was with 'im the night he died."

"Ah," Holmes said extending a hand to the miner. "You, I take it, are Mr. Joseph O'Henry."

"Aye, how do ya know my name?"

"Mrs. Verne told us that her husband invited you to his home for a drink the night he met his unfortunate end. Can I ask you a few questions?"

O'Henry hesitated for several seconds, until Holmes showed him a five dollar bill (American currency) that we obtained the day before at Ellis Island. "Sure I'll talk ta ya. But not here. Meet me in half an hour, at the Open Quarry. Ya knows how ta get there?"

We nodded and left the company of Mr. Joseph O'Henry, with the promise to meet him at the Open Quarry.

"Holmes," I said when we were out of earshot of the miner, "I wonder if he has something important to tell us."

"I'm almost certain of it Watson."

"Do you think he can be trusted?"

Holmes shrugged his slender shoulders and continued to walk briskly. "I do not believe that he has the intelligence to be conniving." We, with the aid of our map, reached the Open Quarry in thirty five minutes.

I will pause here to briefly describe the layout of the Open Quarry. It is, unlike its name suggests, a large chasm, filled to the top with boulders of various shapes and sizes. My heart pounded a little when I realized how easy it would be for an assassin to hide between two rocks and wait for his prey to walk near. Once he eliminated the person, he could slip back between the rocks without being seen.

It was on one of these rocks that we found Mr. Joseph O'Henry laying prostrate, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his face.

"Mr. O'Henry!" Holmes's shout startled the man and he nearly fell off his rock.

"Oh howdy," O'Henry said when he regained his composure. "Yer late."

"My apologies," Holmes said. "However when one does not really know one's way around, it is easy for one to get lost."

"Yeah, I'm guessin' I fergot ta mention that."

"So it would seem," my friend said dryly. "Now, Mr. O'Henry, I suggest you tell us what you know of Mr. Verne's death and not waste any more time."

"Sure," O'Henry said leaning backward and lighting a cigarette. "Ya see, one night Billy and I were workin' in the Victoria Shaft, an' I got thirsty an' went ta get some whiskey from me flask. When I was ready ta go back down, Bill's wife, Sandra grabbed my 'ttention. She wanted ta know where ol' Bill was, an' I told her. Bill then told me ta come back down and I did, only ta find him stoopin' over a disgustin' skeleton. We brought it back up and we thought that was the end of it, least I did.

''Bout a week later, ol' Bill invited me over fer a drink cause his wife was gon' out. Well, I found out he'd been pon'drin' bout that skeleton and was tryin' ta figure out who it was. 'E even tol' me that he was makin' inquiries 'round the mine."

At that statement, Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Do you know what inquires he made and to whom he was speaking?'

The miner scratched his knotty hair and squinted, trying to think. "Nah," he said at length. "Nah Bill never tol' me nuttin' 'bout dem inquiries."

"I see, pray continue."

"Well, as I was sayin', I told Bill he had the dead guy on the brain. 'E laughed an' said that he didn't think that guy died o' natural causes. Then 'e poured two shots o' whiskey an' we drank 'em down quickly. We drank an' played poker till 'bout ten thirty. I 'ember the time 'cause I was loosin' ta ol' Bill terr'bly an' decided ta leave b'fore I was completely drunk.

'I bid ol' Bill goodnight an' started home."

"Did you notice anything unusual on your way home?"

"I was jus' gettin' ta that part. As I was walkin' home, I saw a man 'cross the street from Bill's 'ouse. 'E was jus' standin' thar, lookin' at the house. I noticed though, that occasion'ly 'e'd move a lil' closer ta Bill's house. When 'e walked, 'e limped on 'is left leg. I woulda stay'd longer, but I fig'ured since I was half drunk, it'd be best iffin I got 'ome b'fore I pass'd out on the street somewheres. Next day, I ground out ol' Bill was dead."

When O'Henry concluded his narrative, I looked at my friend. His face was flushed and his eyes were two diamonds in the sun. "Do you believe you saw the man who killed your friend?" Holmes asked.

"I shur do. Believe it like I believe the Gospel I do," the miner said.

"Mr. O'Henry, did you notice anything else about the man, besides his limp?"

The miner thought for a minute. "Nome, that's all I know."

Holmes smiled and handed the O'Henry the money he promised. "Thank you sir, you have been a great help."

"You jus' find that thar man who killed Bill Mr. Holmes. You do that an' I'll think yer the best damned man in the world. Ya need anything else, ya jus' ask fer Joseph O'Henry."

Holmes and I started away from the Open Quarry, when my friend stopped short and called back to O'Henry. "Was the skeleton Mr. Verne discovered ever identified?"

"Nome sir, I don't know nuttin' 'bout identifyin' bodies. Ya could ask the police station."

"Thank you Mr. O'Henry. Take care!"

"Bye Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson!"

My friend and I took our leave, his head sunk upon his breast, deep in thought. We stopped at the Victoria shaft at his request. We spent a quarter of an hour staring into the darkness, Holmes trying to reconstruct exactly what transpired when Mr. Verne dragged the body from the abyss.

"There have been too many people here," he said when we finally began walking again. "The miners and the police have made such a mess, that any valuable evidence was destroyed." He shrugged his slender shoulders and sighed.

"What do you intend to do now Holmes?"

My friend was silent until we re-climbed the ridge that led out of the copper mines. Once we were standing in front of our client's house once again, Holmes spoke. "We will try our luck at the police station. Hopefully they will be able to shed some light on the mysterious body."

"Holmes, do you honestly think that this skeleton has any relevance to the death of Mr. Verne?"

"Yes, I do not believe in mere coincidence. Consider the facts we have so far Watson. One week after Mr. Verne discovered the skeleton, he was found dead in his own home. A few weeks later, Mr. Verne's body was stolen and a deadly note was left for me in its place. Do you honestly believe that the two events are not related?"

I could not refute what Holmes had said. Indeed, what he said made sense. However, I was completely in the dark as to how the events were related.

My musings were interrupted when we arrived at the local police station. Yes, the body was identified as Mr. Eric Nelson. No, we could not examine it, nor could we read the corner's report. The cause of death had yet to be determined.

"Bloody fools!" Holmes growled when we exited the establishment. "For once Watson, I must compliment Lestrade and company. They are at least willing to cooperate with me!"

Because Holmes was in a foul mood, I decided not to say anything that might provoke him. The two of us walked along the main street, Ridge Road, in silence, neither of us anticipating the events that were about to transpire.

Out of no where, a hansom cab appeared, coming at us at breakneck speed. Before either one of us could react, the cab was upon us. We were forced to jump out of the way, to avoid getting rundown. Before my mind could register what had happened, a loud report sounded, cutting the silence. Almost simultaneously, I heard a cry of pain and the sound of retreating horse hooves.

Quickly I opened my eyes and got shakily to my feet. I looked around to see if anyone was hurt. My blood ran cold at the sight before my eyes. Lying unconscious, covered in blood, his revolver lying uselessly beside him was my friend Sherlock Holmes!


	7. Recovery

"Holmes!" I shouted rushing over to my fallen friend. I knelt down next to him and attempted to gauge the extent of his injuries. "Holmes! Are you all right?"

When he did not answer, fear flooded my body. I grabbed his wrist and felt for a pulse. Thankfully, I found one, although it was weak and erratic. I tore at his waistcoat and shirt, but there was so much blood, I could ascertain how badly he was injured. "Holmes, for God's sake, please answer me!" I stared into his face and was chagrined to see how white it had become. "Holmes!"

Very slowly he opened his grey eyes, which were clouded and filled with extreme pain. "Watson?" He asked his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Thank God!" I muttered. "Holmes, where were you hit?"

My friend ignored my question and attempted to grasp my hand, but was too feeble to do so. "Watson, are you hurt? Please say you are not hurt!" His voice held a note of urgency.

"No, I'm not hurt."

"Good," he whispered, "good." Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness once again.

Much to my chagrin, the crimson patch was growing across his chest. Quickly I removed my own shirt, and wrapped it tightly across his chest in attempt to stop the bleeding. Knowing there was nothing to do for him on the street, I pocked his revolver and I gently lifted him, for once thankful for his gauntness and ran back to Mrs. Verne's house.

I arrived at our client's house extremely winded. I ignored my throbbing lungs and freeing one of my hands, I tugged the bell rope with all my might. "Mrs. Verne! Mrs. Verne it is I, Watson! Open the door, it is an emergency!"

Suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Verne stepped outside. When she saw Holmes lying in my arms, my shirt covering his chest and blood dripping from his side, her face turned a ghastly shade of white and she looked as though she was going to be sick.

"Please," I said, my concern first and foremost for my friend, "let me pass."

Mrs. Verne gave me a wide berth and once inside, I laid the detective on her sofa, not caring if his blood would stain the upholstery.

"Mrs. Verne," I said, making my voice hard. "I must remove the bullet. Pray bring me a basin of hot water and go upstairs and fetch my black medical bag, next to my bed. Hurry!"

Without a word, Mrs. Verne disappeared to fetch the things I required. In her absence, I tore my shirt from my friend and stared at his chest. When I saw where the bullet had struck, fear clawed at my heart. "It's going to be all right Holmes," I muttered, smoothing back his raven colored hair. "It's going to be all right."

After what seemed like an eternity, Mrs. Verne returned to the sitting room, with a basin of water, plenty of linen and my medical bag. I closed my eyes for a moment, imagining I was back on the battle fields of Afghanistan, operating on a wounded member of my regiment, rather than on my dearest friend. When I opened my eyes, I was somewhat calmer and was able to begin surgery.

Several hours later, I managed to extract the bullet from my friend's chest, where it had grazed the left Subclavian Artery. Thankfully, I was able to staunch the bleeding and repair any damage done by the bullet. Once I stitched the entry wound closed, I rummaged in my medical bag and found morphine, which I injected into my friend's bloodstream, to ease the pain that he would experience when he came round from the chloroform. Once that was finished, I covered my friend with an afghan and washed the blood off my hands. The most frightening part of a doctor's duty was next, watching the patient for any signs of infection or any other potential complications.  
As I watched my friend sleep, I realized just how close I had come to loosing him and a terror I'd never known entered my breast. In attempt to ease my own fears, I turned from his prostrate form and found a pale and shaken Mrs. Verne standing in the doorway.

I rose and grasped her arm. Gently I steered her into a chair before her legs gave out. "Mrs. Verne are you going to be all right?"

Shakily she nodded and looked everywhere but at my friend. "All that blood...is he going to be all right?"

She had asked the question I was dreading the most. I swallowed several times before I answered her. "I did all I could for him," I said, noticing with some chagrin how my voice trembled. "I removed the bullet and repaired most of the damage, if no infection sets in, he should be fine. His life is in God's hands now." Even as I spoke I was obliged to avert my head and blink back the tears that were welling in my eyes.

She sniffled slightly. "Can you tell me what happened?"

I leaned back in my chair and recounted the day's events. When I finished, Mrs. Verne was on the verge of sobs.

"If I had known something like this would happen, I never would have consulted you gentlemen. The last thing I wanted was for either one of you to be injured and here is Mr. Holmes, fighting for his life."

Although her last statement chilled me, I rose from my seat and put a comforting arm around her shoulders and drew her close to me, her head resting on my shoulder. "It is all right Mrs. Verne," I said soothingly. I could not help but notice the warmth of her face against my bare skin. "My friend is a strong man, and I am certain he will make a speedy recovery. His injuries are you not fault Madame, and knowing him the way I do, he will want to resume his investigation as soon as he wakes."

"Doctor Watson! You cannot allow him to do that!" Mrs. Verne shrieked in horror.

"Of course I won't," I said calming her once again. "However, I just want to prepare you. Holmes is by far the worst patient imaginable."

"I am prepared to help you care for him in anyway possible."

I smiled at the woman and stroked her hand with my thumb.

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

"Was Mr. Holmes armed? If so, why did he not defend himself?"

Her question startled me and it took me a moment before I could answer her. "You have noticed, no doubt, that Holmes's right hand is bandaged?"

"Yes."

"He attempted to reach his revolver but was unable to do so because of his pervious injury."

"That poor man," she murmured, breathing onto my skin. "That poor man." Suddenly she raised her head and looked into my face. "Doctor Watson, where is your shirt?"

I pointed to the floor, where I had carelessly thrown it, in my haste to tend to Holmes.

She stood and picked it up. She examined the bloodstains on it with a scared and rueful face. "I will wash this for you."

"There is no need Mrs. Verne I have plenty more."

"Nonsense," she said turning toward the doorway. "I'll clean this for you." She exited the room only to return a moment later carrying a blanket. She threw it around me and smiled. "You will let me know when he wakes, won't you?"

"Of course," I replied, returning my attention to Holmes's sleeping form. As he slept, I studied his features and wondered just went on inside that great mind of his. I also recalled the first thing he had said when I attempted to revive him on the street. 'You're not hurt Watson?' The fact that he was more concerned about me than himself moved me deeply. At that moment, I knew I could never live with myself if I were to loose him.

Morpheus must have taken hold of me eventually, for I was awakened by the most horrible nightmare. I dreamed that Holmes was dying from his wound and was crying out for my help but I was unable to save him.

Immediately, I went over to Holmes and examined him once again, to make sure that my dream was not reality. Much to my relief, Holmes was looking much better than when I first saw him, on the kerb on Ridge Road.

When I resumed my own chair, Holmes stirred and groaned in pain. Very slowly, he opened his eyes and looked around. He attempted to sit up but the effort was too much for him in his weakened state and he was forced to lie back against the pillows.

"Holmes thank God," I murmured when his eyes met mine. It was then that I knew he would survive his injuries.

"Watson?" He asked uncertainly.

"Yes old man?"

"What the devil happened? I don't seem to be able to recall anything."

I forced a smile. "I'm not surprised. In addition to your other injuries you might have sustained a slight concussion when you hit the ground."

My friend's eyes suddenly took on a vacant, far away look and I realized that memories from the past few hours came rushing to him, assaulting his brain. I also knew he was struggling to put everything in perspective. Then, his eyes cleared and he looked at me, absolute terror was written on his face.

"Watson! Dear God, please say you are not hurt!" He attempted to rise and see if indeed I was struck by a bullet, but the pain was to much and he slumped back against the cushions. "Watson..."

"Hush Holmes," I said. I stood and pushed the hair back from his furrowed brow. "I'm all right."

"Do you swear?"

"Yes old man, I swear that I am not hurt."

"Good," he said. His voice was growing weak. "Good," he lapsed into unconsciousness once again.


	8. The Plot Thickens

**The promised update! Enjoy and R&R to tell me what you think!**

I cannot say how much time elapsed between when Holmes first came round for the first time and when he came round completely. The hours I kept vigil over him seem, in retrospect, to blur together. The only thoughts that occupied my mind were what would have happened to me if Holmes had not survived his wound. I knew in my heart of hearts I could not live with myself, the guilt that I could have saved him but didn't would have been unbearable. Occasionally, Mrs. Verne entered the sitting room, and broke into my thoughts. On those occasions, we chatted softly about the most trivial of things; her main goal I believe was to keep my mind off the pending mortality of my dearest friend. She'd then softly enquire about Holmes's condition and ensure that I needed nothing. It was around eleven o'clock in the evening when I was able to finally convince Mrs. Verne to retire for the night. She kissed my cheek in a comforting fashion and I watched her retreat to her bedroom, leaving me once again to my own thoughts.

It was the wee hours of the morning when Holmes finally stirred again. His color had greatly improved over the hours and I was certain that he would survive and no infection would set in.

"Watson, what time is it?' Were the first words he spoke to me as he slowly regained consciousness.

I reached into my trouser pocket and removed my pocket watch. I was surprised to see it was three o'clock in the morning. When I answered my friend's question he swore quietly.

"An entire day wasted Watson! We have much work to do. Come along we must--"

"We must nothing Holmes," I said, rising from my chair. I perched on the edge of the sofa and gently pushed my friend back against the cushions. "You were gravely wounded today Holmes."

"I am fine Watson," he barked savagely. "Honestly, you are clucking around like a mother hen!" Although weakened physically, the detective's tongue was as sharp as ever.

"Holmes, until you earn your medical degree from Netley, you will listen to what I say," I admonished tenderly. "You will not work until I deem you physically able."

"Watson, I daresay you forget the reason we are here."

"No Holmes, I have not forgotten Mrs. Verne's plight, but your health is more important to me than any murder investigation. You need rest, you lost a great deal of blood--"

"Watson, you will be hard pressed to keep me here against my will," came his thinly veiled threat. He attempted to sit up, but groaned in pain and was obliged to settle back against the cushions.

Ordinarily I would have deferred to his wishes, but his health was much too fragile for him to be taking unnecessary risks. I stood firmly against my convictions. "Holmes, I will do anything in my power to ensure you do not do yourself another injury. If that means restraining you by force then so be it," my voice matched his in hardness.

My friend was too weak to protest and closed his steel colored eyes. "Watson, I have an investigation to conduct--"

"Which can and will wait," I replied quickly. "I almost lost you today old boy." I shuddered involuntarily as I remember the ghastly contrast between his crimson blood and the stark paleness of alabaster skin. My voice shook as I remembered the events of this afternoon. "I almost lost you today."

I felt my face cloud over with rage as he smiled sardonically. "You do not know how close you came to death Holmes!" I could not help the belligerent pitch my voice took on. "You do not know the fear that clawed at my heart when I ascertained the extent of your injuries! Do you honestly think I could withstand your death a second time? I…"

My words trailed off when he attempted to squeeze my hand. The effort caused him to clench his jaw tightly in agony. "I am so sorry old boy," he whispered, his voice growing weak. "I am sorry for everything."

To this day I do not know whether he was apologizing for his carelessness that afternoon or if he was apologizing for Reichenbach, a wound that was still fresh in my heart.

"I did not mean to cause you such distress."

My face softened and I patted his hand reassuringly. "It is quite all right old man. Now you need rest," I rose and gently covered him with the rug. "You must stay warm," I said by way of explanation.

"Watson, you get some rest. You look like death."

I smiled grimly. "Thank you for that singular backhanded compliment Holmes. However, I think I will remain here, to ensure you follow my instructions."

"Watson, I will rest much more easily if I knew you were comfortably in bed." His tone of voice was one that was not to be disputed.

I smiled and turned the gas completely down. "Goodnight Holmes, sleep well," I said. I started down the hallway that led to my room. If I had known what the man was planning, I would never have left him alone.

However, since I am no clairvoyant, I retired to my room and just took the time to divest myself of my shoes and stockings before I fell heavily onto the bed, the stress of the day falling upon me like lead. I was asleep before my head touched the pillow, a deep, dreamless five fathom sleep.

Sometime later I heard a frantic pounding at my door, but it was a woman's insistent shouts that released me from the tendrils of sleep that held me prisoner.

"Doctor Watson!" When I realized the voice was none other than Mrs. Verne's, my eyes snapped open in an instant.

"Yes dear lady, do come in," I replied, rising from the bed. I reached into one of the drawers of the armoire and lifted a clean shirt as she burst through the door, wearing nothing save a silken dressing gown that was tied hastily at the waist.

Although I noted with surprise the look of alarm on her face, I cannot deny my eyes, seemingly on their own accord, drifted to her womanly curves that were barely hidden by the soft material.

"Doctor Watson," her tone of voice was such that I instantly forgot what lie beneath the folds of her robe and looked into her face.

"Mrs. Verne, what ever is troubling you?" I ushered her into the lone chair in the room. I looked her over with a physician's eye and noticed signs of anxiety pulling at her mouth and eyes.

"It's Mister Holmes!"

The mention of my friend's name and the tone of voice in which she spoke it sent vines of fear to my heart, encircling it with their long tendrils, squeezing slowly. I fought back a new wave of fear and when I spoke I was glad to hear my voice had taken on its physician's tone. "What of Holmes?"

"H…he…" she hesitated for several moments, her face blanching considerably.

"Come come Mrs. Verne, out with it!" My voice was harsher than I intended, but my nerves did not allow politeness. My concern was, as always, first and foremost for my friend.

"He is gone," she said with unusual determination for a woman.

The three words she uttered sent my mind spiraling out of control. Worries and anxieties held me tightly in their grasp. What had possessed him to leave? "When did you learn he was missing?"

"Less than fifteen minutes ago Doctor. I searched the house but he is no where inside."

I rose hastily and bounded out of the sitting room, nearly toppling Mrs. Verne over in my rush. After a cursory examination of the sofa, I noted there was no evidence of a struggle. It did not take an acumen like Holmes's to deduce that he had gone against my orders and was gallivanting about town without any regard for his own welfare.

I let out a sigh of frustration and proceeded to pace the sitting room like a man possessed. "Does he not realize the bloody danger! The man is an absolute fool at times!"

"Doctor," Mrs. Verne placed a comforting hand on my shoulder to stop me from making her carpet more threadbare than it already was.

I turned and faced the woman, scowling as I did so. "What is it Mrs. Verne?" My voice was more callous than I intended.

Mrs. Verne seemed surprised at my treatment of her. "Perhaps Doctor Watson, you would like some breakfast? It might calm you."

I bit back the sarcastic remark that was on my lips, realizing she was only trying to be a good hostess and trying to calm my nerves. "Mrs. Verne," it took a great effort to make sure my voice remained gentle, "the only thing that would soothe my nerves at the moment would be Holmes walking through your door, unscathed."

Our client's hand moved from my shoulder down my arm where it gripped my bicep. "You should not worry so. He is, after all, a grown man."

I swallowed once, taking care not to show her the anger I was feeling at her ignorance. I sighed and forced a smile. "Mrs. Verne, you like m friend, do not realize the gravity of his injuries. He is extremely weak for he lost a great deal of blood. If he becomes involved in any physical confrontation, the stitches could tare."

"And what would happen then?"

I blinked my eyes several times, willing myself not to give into the emotion that surrounded the answer to her question. "He could die," I said simply.

A slight gasp escaped her now colourless lips. "My God!"

"Perhaps you can now understand why I am nervous. I wish I had some idea as to where he could have…" the sound of a door opening combined with ragged breathing stilled my speech.

I turned around quickly and saw my friend's legs give way beneath him. Thankfully I caught him before he crumpled to the ground.

"Holmes," I said, ignoring his obvious embarrassment at showing any type of weakness. Very gently I helped him to stand and cringed imperceptibly when I heard him grunt in pain and gasp for breath. Carefully I helped him over to the sofa, where he collapsed against the cushions, panting heavily. I turned to Mrs. Verne and asked her to fetch some brandy. Once we were alone, I unbuttoned Holmes's shirt, which I noted was stained with blood. My anger dissipated when I saw him in such a weakened state.

"Watson," he rasped, his lungs working double in attempt to get air into them. I quickly quieted him and pushed a shock of hair off his face, to reveal two swollen eyes and a large gash above his right eye. His lower lip was also swollen.

"Here you are Doctor," Mrs. Verne said, pressing a tumbler of brandy into my hand.

I nodded to her and then brought the glass to my friend's lips, instructing him to drink. It took a great deal of strength for him to lift his head, so I place my arm underneath it and slowly brought his lips to the tumbler. When the burning sensation of the liquor surged down his throat, some color returned to his pasty complexion.

I slowly laid Holmes's head back against the cushions of the sofa and once again turned to Mrs. Verne. "Please fetch my medical bag, some fresh linen and boiling water Mrs. Verne."

"Certainly Doctor," she said as she exited the room to fetch what I needed to tend to my friend.

"Watson," Holmes wheezed, feebly attempting to grasp my shoulder.

"Quiet old man, you'll exhaust yourself," I admonished gently. I carefully put his arm at his side and lightly fingered the wound that Holmes had reopened. I carefully appraised the damage and knew I would have to clean it immediately otherwise—

Mrs. Verne thankfully entered the sitting room carrying what I required. Without a word, she set a basin of boiling water, complete with soaked rags and my medical bag next to me. Then, after giving Holmes's hand a comforting squeeze, she disappeared from the room.

"Watson, y…you must--"

"Not now Holmes!" I sighed angrily at his stubbornness. He hissed in pain as I began to wash out his wound.

"Dash it all Watson!" He exclaimed suddenly. "You must hear me man."

"Your health is more important right now Holmes than any narrative you must relate to me," my tone of voice was one that could not be argued. "I cannot believe that you went against my instructions! It is quite clear to me that you have no regard for your own health." I muttered hotly as I continued to cleanse his wound. Once I was satisfied that I thoroughly cleaned the reopened wound, I began rummaging through my medical bag for my syringe and my supply of laudanum. When I found both, I drew some of the drug into my syringe and then injected it into my friend's bloodstream.

He groaned and almost instantly closed his eyes, falling into a state of semi-consciousness.

With the deftness and speed of my days in Afghanistan, I stitched my friend's chest and the rather large gash above his eye. I also took the time to examine the rest of his body, for the exhaustion and labored breathing; I reasoned was due to other injuries. I found several more abrasions and bruises on his chest, back and extremities, all of which were new. Each one I carefully tended too. Once my medical work was done, I covered my friend's inert form with an afghan and turned down the gas, so there was only a minimal amount of light. I then sterilized my medical supplies and joined Mrs. Verne in the dining room.

"How is he Doctor?" She asked as I poured water from the basin onto my hands, scrubbing from them all traces of the great detective's blood.

"His is sleeping now," I muttered, meticulously drying my hands with the towel from the rack. "I gave him a mild sedative; he should come round in a few hours. Unfortunately, he must rest if he is to recover properly."

"How is that unfortunate?" She asked with obvious surprise.

I chuckled in spite of the gravity of the situation. "Holmes is by far the worst patient I have ever treated."

"Why do you say that Doctor Watson?" She indicated for me to sit across from her at the table, which I did.

"He is extremely stubborn and will want to work; his health is a mere trifle to him, and subsequently unimportant," I leaned back in my chair and removed my cigarette case. "May I?" I asked indicating the case. Mrs. Verne nodded and I immediately lit a cigarette and inhaled its smoke gratefully. "It will take all of my nerve and yours I fancy, to care for him."

"I will do anything I can to help you Doctor Watson."

"Thank you my dear girl," I smiled at her and noticed, not for the first time, how her pale skin was the color of fresh cream and how one could loose oneself in the depths of her purple eyes. When I realized I was staring, I averted my eyes and felt my cheeks redden.

"What is the matter Doctor Watson?"

"I'm just a little warm," I lied, loosing my tie unconvincingly. "If you will please excuse me, I must check on Holmes." I started to rise from my chair, but Mrs. Verne's hand caught mine, keeping it on the table.

"Don't leave me yet Doctor," she said, arching her back sensually against the posterior of the chair. "You just came in here." She pulled a face, which caught my heart off guard. Immediately I resumed my chair.

"Ah, that is very much better," she said with a contented sigh.

I smiled and thought of running my fingers through her soft wheat colored hair, while claiming her mouth with my own. I averted my eyes once again and minutely studied the scarred tabletop.

"What happened to Mr. Holmes?" She asked, concern creeping into her velvety voice.

"I do not know," I confessed, pouring myself a generous portion of brandy from the decanter on the table. Slowly I sipped the liquid, savoring the searing sensation it sent down my gullet. "Judging from his injuries, I'd say he was severely beaten. But for what purpose I must confess I have no idea. When he wakes I will be able to learn more."

Mrs. Verne nodded and in a very unladylike fashion poured herself three fingers of brandy, which she threw back as quickly as some drunkards in East End bars. As we quietly conversed, some of her questions startled me, but at the time I paid them no mind. However, as I look back, I wish I had given her inquiries more consideration.

"Will Mister Holmes survive his injuries?"

"Of course he will," I replied quickly. "He simply needs rest to restore his usual iron like constitution."

A frown seemed to pass over her features, but I simply shrugged it off as to erratic lighting and the stress of the day falling heavily upon her.

"And he will continue to work?"

I chuckled and drank some more brandy from my tumbler. "Yes, of course. He would never walk away from an investigation once he has his teeth sunk into it."

"That is very good. Doctor Watson, I have been meaning to ask you a question."

"Go ahead dear girl."

"Well Doctor, I recently read the account of 'The Dying Detective.' I was wondering your opinion on Mister Culverton Smith."

"My opinion?" I was startled by not only her question but the tone of voice in which she asked it; almost a challenging tone.

"Yes Doctor Watson, your opinion." She must have seen lines of rage cross my brow for she smiled and patted my hand reassuringly. "I mean no harm of course Doctor Watson and if you would rather not discuss it, I understand. It is just that your writing is so remarkable and you are able to portray your people so judiciously that I could not fully comprehend your feelings about Clu…Mister Smith."

I nodded and sipped some more of the brandy, and pour more amber liquid into the tumbler. "I despise the man," I replied in a clipped tone. "He not only attempted to kill Holmes but he also caused me…" I allowed my words to trail off when I realized how much information I had almost revealed.

I shook my head slightly and drained all the contents from my tumbler before refilling it. It was not my habit to drink before a lady, but her question had flecked me to the raw. Once again my mind was filled with the pain of Holmes's deception, the utter betrayal I felt at that moment when he revealed to me his ruse. Some wounds, I reflected, take longer to heal than others.

"What were you going to say Doctor Watson?"

"Nothing," I said a bit too quickly. "Thankfully Smith is behind bars in England, for if I ever saw him again, I would give him a thrashing he would not soon forget." Once again I sipped the amber liquid in my tumbler and refilled my glass for the fourth time.

"I understand Doctor," she said, once again placing her China-doll hand atop mine. "I did not mean to offend."

"Fear not dear girl, you have not offended me."

"That is good Doctor, because I would feel terrible, considering all that you and Mister Holmes have done for me."

I finished my brandy and briefly entertained the thought of having another. I decided against it, however, when I realized I needed to be completely lucid when I checked on Holmes. My temperament was already mellowing from the liquor I consumed. I set my glass down firmly on the table and re-topped the crystal decanter.

"Your brandy is excellent Mrs. Verne," I complemented. "I do not believe I have ever tasted a finer one."

She chuckled softly and stroked the back of my hand with her thumb. "I thank you for the compliment Doctor Watson; however I do not know what kind it is. My William drank brandy frequently." Her tone suddenly seemed to darken, but I passed the moment off on the brandy. "My William drank too much, and most likely would have drunk himself to death." She laughed mirthlessly, which chilled me to the bone.

I quickly rose from my chair, nearly toppling it over. For reasons unknown to me, I felt the queerest desire to run as far away from both Mrs. Verne and North Arlington. An almost animalistic terror filled me at that moment, as I backed through her kitchen door and my desire to escape grew. As I look back, I wish I had listened to that instinct instead of quashing it.

Once in the sitting room, I reclined in the chair opposite of Holmes and watched his sleeping form. As I observed my friend, I realized how vulnerable he was when he slept and I knew at that moment, I would see this investigation through with him, and face any dangers by his side. I would gladly, if the need arose, trade my life in exchange for his.

Much to my surprise, an hour passed and Holmes began to stir. Slowly he opened his eyes and blinked several times, attempting to ascertain exactly where he was.

"Holmes, thank God. How are you feeling?"

He sat up abruptly, but seemed to regret that action for he swore from between clenched teeth. Quickly I rose and eased him back down.

"Holmes, you must take it easy."

"Watson, I do not need you to be clucking about like a mother hen," he said with some asperity.

"It is quite apparent that one of us needs to, for you are not the least bit concerned with your own welfare," I said angrily. "I cannot believe that you went against my instructions--"

"Pray save me from the repetition of your speech, and hand me my cigarettes."

I sighed, removed a cigarette from my case, lit it and handed it to my friend who inhaled the smoke gratefully.

"It is the absence of tobacco that I find the most irksome," he said, taking a long savory drag on the cigarette. He looked at me keenly from beneath slightly swollen eyelids. "I observe you have been drinking," he said candidly.

I was taken aback by his deduction. "How on earth did you know that?"

He started to chuckle, but it was cut short apparently by pain for he gave a sharp intake of breath and allowed his head to sink once again back on the cushions. He once again began to speak but his voice was strained. "You have a slight bleariness around your eyes Watson, which although you are not drunk, it suggests that you have been doing some rather heavy drinking."

I shook my head. "Holmes had you have been born a hundred years earlier you would have been burned at the stake for a witch."

"Warlock," the detective corrected. He once again peered at me keenly. "I am certain that I owe you an explanation."

I nodded and resumed my chair. "Yes you do Holmes."

"I can tell by your rebuking expression that you are quite annoyed with me for disobeying your instructions."

"Holmes, I would not care a whit if your health was not is such a precarious position. Dear Lord Holmes I don't think you—"

"But I assure you my efforts were absolutely vital. Had I have remained here, our only witness would even now be lying at the bottom of the river."

I must admit his words intrigued me. "What?"

"You heard me Watson," he said taking another long drag on the smaller alternative to his pipe. "I needed to speak with Mister O'Henry once again. I wanted a more detailed description of our antagonist."

"You climbed down that ridge in your condition?" I exclaimed hotly.

"Watson, pray calm yourself. When I arrived at the copper mines it was in time to see Mister O'Henry struggling with two men armed with cudgels. I gave a shout and almost instantly both men rounded on me instantly, seemingly to have forgotten Mr. O'Henry. Being something of a single stick expert, I did not have much of a problem fending them off.

'However three more assailants appeared most probably from behind the Open Quarry and surrounded both myself and Mister O'Henry. While our witness was standing some distance from me, only one of the mystery men attacked him, the rest focused their energies on attempting to incapacitate me."

"By Jove!"

"As you can see Watson, I was able to fend them off, with the aid of Mr. O'Henry." He favored me with a rueful smile but then his face turned stormy. He quickly lowered his voice. "Watson, Watson you must listen to me. We are in very deep waters, much deeper than I originally thought. We must be on our guard."

"I am at your disposal Holmes," I said.

He feebly attempted to grasp my hand but it the effort was too much for his weakened stated. "We…" He stopped speaking when Mrs. Verne entered the room.

"Ah Mister Holmes, thank God. You gave us both quite a scare," Mrs. Verne said walking towards my friend.

"Mrs. Verne, I do apologize for putting you out in such a fashion."

"Nonsense Mr. Holmes!" Our client said patting his hand. Holmes visibly recoiled at her touch. If Mrs. Verne noticed Holmes's reaction she ignored it completely. "I am simply glad you are awake. But then again, you did have an excellent doctor by your side."

I felt myself blush at the compliment. "Thank you Mrs. Verne," I was suddenly ashamed at my earlier thoughts of running. "But now, we should both leave Holmes to rest."

"No Watson!" Holmes's strident voice held its masterful tone. "I do not need to rest. I need to work."

I turned to Mrs. Verne and smiled sympathetically. "May we have a moment please?"

"Certainly Doctor." She gave Holmes's hand a final squeeze and allowed her hand to trail over my shoulder as she exited the room.

"Now Holmes--"

"Quiet Watson," my friend demanded. "I have much more to tell you. After our assault, I spoke with Mister O'Henry, ignoring his suggestions to go to hospital. It seems that he has been watched."

"What do you mean?"

"The day of our first conversation, Mr. O'Henry returned home rather early for he was to meet a woman later that evening. However, when he arrived at his home, he found his door unlocked. He entered with caution, but whoever entered had gone, leaving behind only a note and a needle dipped in a rather dark substance--"

"Much like the one that was left for you!"

"Correct Watson. The note he unfortunately he destroyed, but he did have the intelligence to retain the needle."

"Where is it now?" I inquired, nervous suddenly that in his fall, Holmes could have landed on it.

He favored me with a grim, mysterious smile. "That information Watson, I must keep to myself for the moment."

I nodded, acknowledging my understanding of the situation. "Of course."

"We've much work to do Watson," the detective said. "We've much work to do."

"I do not doubt it," I said with a smile. "However, you must rest."

"Watson I cannot--"

"Unless you want an extended stay at the nearest hospital, you will follow my instructions. If I must restrain you by force then I am perfectly prepared to do so."

When Holmes realized he could not win the argument, he groaned and closed his eyes. It was not long before his breathing evened out and he was asleep.


	9. One Unexpected Love Scene

**Hope you enjoy! Please review and give me feedback!

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A week passed before I allowed Holmes to continue his investigation. After his first attempt to thwart my medical advice, I kept constant vigil over my obstinate and irritable patient.

"Damnit all Watson!" Holmes declared on the seventh day of his self-quoted 'forced imprisonment.' "I daresay your head has been turned by the fair Mrs. Verne and you have forgotten why we are here."

I rustled my newspaper loudly and made a great show of folding it. I had heard similar speeches from the detective at various intervals that week. I sipped the watered-down coffee that our client had fixed for me before turning my attention to Sherlock Holmes. "Holmes you are not going anywhere until I deem you healthy enough."

He sighed angrily. "Watson of all your flaws, your mother hen protectiveness is the worst."

I smiled and drank more coffee. "Let me examine you then."

"Watson is this really--"

"Open your shirt old man." I watched as he hid so and was greatly relieved when he was able to move his left arm without any stiffness or pain. "You are looking much better Holmes. Are you in any pain?"

He succinctly shook his head in the negative.

"Are you being honest?"

The world's first consulting detective gave an exasperated sigh. "Watson, I pray you, simply give me your diagnosis so I may continue with my investigation. An entire week has been lost! I daresay you do not fully comprehend the advantage that loss of time gives our opponent!"

"Holmes, although your injuries are not completely healed I do not believe your life is in danger if you use extreme caution while you--"

"Excellent Watson!" My friend exclaimed jumping to his feet. Quickly he buttoned his shirt and pulled on his boots, which had a reddish clay affixed to the soles.

"From the mine," he explained when he realized I was looking at his boots. "The soil around the Open Quarry has an extremely high sandstone clay composition. You will observe similar soil clinging to the instep of your left boot."

I glanced down and much to my surprise Holmes's deductions were correct. "Honestly Holmes, you amaze me."

"Watson," he straightened and stared at me keenly for several moments, "do you remember the day I was shot?"

His question startled me and I nodded. "I daresay, I can most assuredly tell you the very paving stone I was standing upon when I saw your prostrate form."

My friend chuckled grimly. "Then you must have observed something of the assailant."

I shook my head in the negative and Holmes took on the attitude of a schoolmaster disciplining a wayward pupil.

"Come come Watson you must have noticed something!" He lit a cigarette and stared into my face, as though the answer to his question lie somewhere among the creases there. "Honestly, it is not possible for you to experience any situation and not observe even the most trivial and commonplace details."

"I do apologize for my lack of observing details," I said with the attitude of an affronted gentleman, "but my concern was first and foremost for your well-being!"

The detective waved his hand as if to brush away my words. "Yes yes quite. However you must remember something! Think man, think!"

I forced my mind back and tried to remember the events of the past nine days with as uch clarity as possible. Suddenly, something struck me. "The assault took place near a corner store."

Holmes nodded briefly, giving me a sign to continue. Rapidly, memories rushed to the forefront of my mind. "The assailant or rather the driver of the cab attempted to keep his face hidden. I did notice however, that he had grey hair."

"Bravo Watson! We will make a detective of you yet."

I chuckled and shook my head good-humoredly, the irritation I was feeling toward him a moment before was instantly forgotten. "What are we going to do now?"

"You my dear doctor are going to remain here. I, on the other hand, am going out."

"Holmes--"

"Watson, I assure you I will not engage in any dangerous feats without my trust Boswell at my side. I must speak with the police as well as spend some time reacquainting myself with the area. I have, after all, been incapacitated for some time. I must also reel in the few lines I have cast to see if any of our fish have taken the bait."

His statement intrigued me. "I did not know you had a scent."

Holmes's smile at that moment can only be described as enigmic. "I will explain all in good time my dear Watson. For now I must take my leave. Good day old fellow." With that he was gone, he slammed the door closed even as I was attempting to respond to his statement.

Glumly, I occupied a seat in our client's sitting room and stared at the dying fire. Mrs. Verne joined me soon after and I spent the majority of the afternoon in her company, sitting at her dining room table. We engaged in what should have been absorbing conversation but my thoughts continually traveled and I wondered what my friend was doing.

"Doctor Watson?"

Mrs. Verne's voice broke my thoughts, forcing me to look up at her. "Hm? I do apologize Mrs. Verne."

"Doctor Watson are you all right? You have not touched your scones or tea in over ten minutes. Do you not like them? I know they do not compare to the English--"

"Mrs. Verne these are delicious I assure you." To prove my point, I sipped the tepid tea and moved the slightly stale scone around on my plate before biting into it. At that moment I longed for Mrs. Hudson's wonderful cooking.

"Then what is the matter Doctor?"

I smiled at the comely woman seated across from me. For reasons unknown to me, I reached across the table and covered one of her china doll hands with my own. "I am concerned about my friend that is all Mrs. Verne." My fears from the night before were pushed aside and almost completely forgotten.

"You said he is quite well," her tone carried a hint of disappointment but it was replaced by genuine concern so quickly that I cannot be sure if it was real or I simply imagined it. "You should not worry so Doctor Watson; it causes creases in your handsome brow."

I felt my face catch fire. "I do not doubt it," I forced a laugh. "I honestly believe I aged as much in these past several weeks as I have in the past four years. Holmes has absolutely no regard for his own welfare."

Mrs. Verne nodded. "I understand what you are saying Doctor. My William, he was the same as your friend. I was constantly worried, hence why you see me as I am," she motioned toward her face, which although beautiful and young held several creases.

I smiled and my eyes met hers. "There is nothing wrong with the way you look Mrs. Verne," I said honestly.

Her face flushed and I felt my own heart pound against my ribcage. "You are too kind Doctor," she closed her eyes and then reopened them. The gesture was subtly seducing. "You are much too kind."

My heart continued to pound and I felt desire for her racing through my bloodstream. My eyes fell to the creamy expanse of her neck and I wondered briefly what it would be like to take her in my arms and feel the contours of our bodies melding together.

I cleared my throat and removed my hand from atop hers, keeping my eyes downcast. I did not want my ardent gaze to fall upon her handsome features any longer.

"Doctor Watson is there something wrong?"

I shook my head. "No my dear Mrs. Verne. I do not know what came over me." Although I kept my eyes averted from her, I felt her piercing gaze appraising me lazily.

"Doctor Watson?"

I looked up and saw her tongue pass briefly over her bottom lip. "Yes Mrs. V--"

"Sandra, simply call me Sandra."

I nodded and once again felt the same awkwardness that I experienced during my boyhood around girls come over me. "Yes Sandra?"

"I have been so lonely Doctor." She arched her back sensuously. "You do not know how hard it is to loose someone you love."

I lowered my eyes and clenched my fist at my side. "My wife."

Sandra Verne sat up with a start. "You are married?"

"I am widowed," I replied softly.

I heard a chair scrape against the floor and then I felt an arm around my shoulders. "I am so sorry Doctor. I did not know."

I shook my head. "It is quite all right Mrs. Verne."

"Sandra please," she squeezed my bicep in a comforting fashion. "What was her name?"

"Mary," I whispered softly. At the mention of my late wife, all the desire I felt from Sandra Verne vanished and was replaced by the same intense grief I had felt after her death a little under a year ago. "Her name was Mary."

"How did you meet her?"

I smiled slightly, remembering that night so many years ago when Mary Morstan walked into the sitting room of 221b Baker Street, fresh-faced and beautiful. Then that night at Pondicherry Lodge when our hands reached for each others' in the darkness to comfort one another. "She was a client of Holmes's," I said simply.

"Do you want to talk about her?"

The kindness in her tone startled me. I raised my tear-filled eyes and met her equally sad ones. "Sandra," With a trembling hand, I brushed the side of her face, pushing a few locks of blond hair behind her ear. "Would you care to tell me about William?"

"He was a good man Doctor Watson," she said, putting her hand atop of mine. "He was a very good man, although a bit too inquisitive for his own good. But I did love him Doctor, I did love him."

I nodded. "I'm sure you did Sandra," I felt my heart pound against my ribs and I felt the familiar stirrings of desire rush through my body. "As I loved my Mary."

I cannot say, in all honesty, what prompted my next actions. Perhaps it was out of grief that I grabbed Sandra Verne and pulled her close to me, wrapping her lithe body in my strong arms, but I believe it was something more animalistic.

We held each other for some time, and I cannot remember who made the first move, but the next moment, I recall was finding myself lying on her carpet in front of the fire place, my weight pinioning her to the floor, our lips interlocked and our bodies dancing to the most primitive rhythms known to man. We warmed each other's flesh in our ever increasing passionate dance; I danced as Eros and she as Aphrodite.

Eventually, our passion overtook us both and we lie together, wrapped in each other's arms until the arms of Morpheous enfolded us in his tight embrace.

"Good Lord!"

The exclamation tore me free from the vines of sleep and my eyelids snapped open only to find a pale faced, extremely shaken Sherlock Holmes standing before me, his face contorted in a look of absolute horror. Before I could say a word, Mrs. Verne sat up quickly mindful of the blanket around her and stared at Holmes, her face matched his.

"Holmes, my God man! H…how what…" I wrapped a protective arm around Sandra Verne and glared at my friend.

It took my friend a moment to compose himself, and when he did his eyes were venomous. "Honestly Watson if I believed you would behave in such a manner I would never have allowed you to accompany me!"

My face flushed with humiliation and shame. "Holmes--"

"Mr. Holmes I can explain--"

"Quiet you harlot!" My friend growled. "I am surprised to find you in relations with Watson so soon after the death of your husband!"

Sandra gasped and I held her closely, determined to protect her from the detective's fierce tongue. "Holmes! Your audacity surprises even me. Kindly exit, for my relations with Mrs. Verne is no concern of yours." My temper flared at Holmes's insolence.

"If that is what you wish Watson!" Without another word, Holmes turned on his heel and left, slamming the front door in his wake, leaving Sandra and I staring after him, completely aghast. I was utterly shaken by my friend's reaction. Never before had I seen him in such a state! Granted he had walked in after a very intimate moment between two people, but regardless that was no reason for him to behave as he did.

My thoughts were interrupted by Sandra Verne's arms snaking around my torso. "John, are you all right?"

I nodded and held her more tightly. "I must apologize for my friend's behavior. He had no right in treating you that manner."

"It is quite all right John," she replied, resting her head against my shoulder. "I do not regret what happened between us."

"Neither do I."

"It feels so good to be in your arms John. I felt so good, and so safe."

I smiled against her hair and kept my arms tightly around her in a protective embrace. I had forgotten how wonderful it was to feel a woman's flesh against my own. I kisser her atop the head and then released her from my arms. "We must dress," I said with some chagrin. "Holmes will return momentarily."

She nodded and we stood, my war wound throbbing from both strenuous activity and my sleep on the floor. I watched her leave the sitting room and disappear into her bedroom. I dressed with military speed and precision. Sandra returned as I was straightening my tie.

"I hope we did not anger Mister Holmes," she said softly.

"No I am sure we did not. He will return shortly."

Much to my surprise, my deduction was incorrect. Holmes did not return to our client's home for several hours.

It was dark as pitch outside and a bitter cold rain began to fall. Sandra and I were in the sitting room, enjoying each other's company in front of a roaring fire. When the grandfather clock struck ten, Sandra retired, leaving me to wait for Holmes's return.


	10. An Unexpected Turn of Events

_I must apologize for the rediculious long delay! There is no excuse for such a hiatus save that real life does occasionally interfere with writing...but now I've returned. I'd like to thank all of my reviewers thus far, for I really appreciate your words and the fact that you are taking time out of your day to read my work. But I would especially like to thank bluesbaby87 for the extremely kind review. Fear not, this story will not die. But enough from me! I do hope you enjoy this chapter and please R&R to let me know what you think!  
_

When the clock struck twelve, and my nerves were all on edge, Sherlock Holmes finally stepped through the front door. "Good Lord Holmes!" I said as he removed his coat, "where the devil have you been?"

He ran one of his slender white hands through his glistening hair which was soaked from the rain. His hands were trembling slightly and his complexion was a ghastly shade of white. My medical instincts were instantly aroused.

"Holmes?" I vacated my chair and approached him, placing my hand on his forearm. "Holmes what on earth is the matter?"

He shrugged off my hand and began to pace the sitting room wildly. "I have much news."

Being a doctor, I was first and foremost concerned with his health. "That is very good Holmes," I said and once again grasped his forearm to stop his frenzied pacing. He was surprised by the fierceness of my touch and before he could protest I pushed him into one of the armchairs. "Holmes you must get out of those soaking clothes, before you catch your death."

"I do not have time for your protectiveness Watson!" He stood and fairly toppled me to the floor in his rush. "I have much to do."

"Yes I am sure, however--"

"Watson, I pray you to leave me alone! I do not need you!"

His words were like a dagger in me and I grasped the mantel for support. "What Holmes?"

"You heard me Watson. It is quite clear that you have developed strong feelings for our client. Obviously I cannot expect you to risk life and limb to accompany me."

"Holmes I--"

"Enough Doctor!" He rounded on me fiercely. "As I said, it does not matter to me if you would rather stay here with a woman than to possibly endanger yourself during an investigation. However that is something _you _must decide. My time is extremely pressed and I cannot dawdle here while you decide where your loyalties lie!"

"Holmes you are speaking nonsense! I do not know what has gotten into you of late but you are not yourself. I do believe this case has affected your logical facilities!"

"Regardless of your beliefs Doctor, I we do not have time to discuss this further. I must be leaving!"

"And I am going to accompany you." I said, scrambling into my greatcoat.

Holmes's look of surprise hurt me more than I care to admit. He must have honestly believed that I cared more about Sandra Verne than I cared for him. The look passed and one of sternness stole across his countenance. "Watson you will stay here," his tone was commanding. "If you are as loyal to me as you claim then you will heed what I say."

I was utterly confused. I did not understand why my friend was treating me in such a manner. Never before had he questioned my devotion nor had he ever adamantly refused my company. "Holmes I do not understand. You have never questioned my loyalties before nor have you ever refused me to company. The only time in my memory when you did not want me in your company was Reichenbach--"

"I have my reasons Watson!" He thundered. "You will stay here with Mrs. Verne and ensure that she does not leave this house. Such a task, given your current relations with her, should not be overtly difficult."

"Balderdash Holmes! I will not sit here mining our client while you court danger. I am your Boswell and I belong at your side."

For a moment the tension between us was palatable, neither of us sure how the other would react to my passionate speech. Never before have I disobeyed his orders. It seemed at that moment we were standing on a precipice, one false move would cause us to fall into the yawning abyss, destroying our friendship entirely. Suddenly Holmes cleared his throat and averted his eyes; he could not deny me. "Very well Watson, very well."

Without looking back at me, the detective stormed our of Sandra's home into the tempest that was raging outside, leaving me to follow.

We walked a quarter of an hour through the blinding rain before my friend deigned to speak to me. His words startled me as much as his earlier rudeness. "I must apologize for my earlier behavior my dear Watson," he shouted over the violent wind. "I was simply taken aback by the compromising position I found you in this afternoon."

I blushed at his words. "I do apologize old man; I do not know what came over me--"

"Regardless, I behaved poorly. I did not mean to question you dedication to me. I honestly hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

"Certainly my friend," I clasped him on the shoulder. I was surprised by such an admission from a self-contained man such as Sherlock Holmes. "But why did you not wish for me to accompany you?"

Holmes ceased walking and turned to face me. There was something different in his gaze, something I could not read or begin to understand. Despite the pouring rain, I could see a type of sadness in those expressive grey orbs, the reason for it, I could not even begin to guess.

"Watson, I have not been completely honest with you during the course of this investigation. Indeed, I have kept you in the dark for the majority of our stay in this wretched town."

I hid a smile. "Holmes, while I am touched by your admission, it is a habit of yours to keep my in the shadows while you are working."

The detective was not comforted by my observation. Instead it seemed to disquiet him. "Which is precisely why you've accepted my treatment of you. Watson, I must confess that this is the first time in our long association that I have kept you in the dark as to the danger we are currently facing. That is why I did not wish for your assistance Watson. We are dealing with great stakes old fellow, and we are treading through leprosy infected waters."

I smiled grimly. "We've been in tight places together before Holmes."

"None as tight as this Watson. Revenge is something men will go to any lengths to achieve, including deception and murder."

His cryptic words chilled me to the very marrow of my bones. Before I could question him further, he began walking at a breakneck speed.

"I have Watson," he said as he strode away from me, "divined the home of my assailant and that of Mr. O'Henry."

"You have?"

"Yes old boy, I have."

"How?"

"I remembered the grey haired man fighting with Joseph O'Henry and your description of my attacker. I went to eh library and spent two hours pouring over ponderous tomes. I found the address of Mr. Stephens. That is where we are currently heading."

"Ah," I replied, turning up the collar to stop the rain from running down my back.

We eventually stopped walking when we reached a rather large house with an ornate awning. There, we were able to take some respite from the storm. Upon reaching the house, Sherlock Holmes grasped the bell rope tightly in his hand and pulled it. A resounding ring was heard through the building.

A few moments later, an elderly man with thinning grey hair, clad in a threadbare dressing gown slowly opened the massive door.

"What do you want? People are trying to sleep you know," the man said angrily.

I glanced at my friend and saw a gleam of recognition in his steel grey eyes.

"I am quite sorry to bother you at this late hour," Holmes said suavely, "but I must speak with you on a matter of extreme import."

"Aye? And who might you be?"  
"How rude of me," the detective said. "My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my friend and colleague Doctor John H. Watson. May I ask, sir, whom I have the pleasure of addressing?"

At the mention of my friend's name, all colour drained from the man's face. "Sherlock Holmes of London?"

My friend nodded in the affirmative. "And you are?"

"Stephens, Mister John Stephens. How may I be of assistance to the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"By explaining why you tried to murder me," before the little man could respond, the detective seized him by the throat and pinned him against one of the brick walls.

The man's eyes grew wide with shock and he squirmed and fought fiercely to free himself from Holmes's iron grasp. He was, however, unsuccessful.

"Now sir," Holmes said, holding the man tightly. "I will ask you again to explain why you attempted to murder me."

"I didn't I swear it!"

"You also attacked both myself and Mister Joseph O'Henry several days ago in the copper mines. What was your reasoning?" Holmes's voice dropped to a threatening growl and his grip on the man's neck tightened.

Ordinarily I would have interfered with Holmes's use of excessive force, however, memories of finding him lying bloodied on the paving stones rushed into my mind and it took a great deal of self control not to throttle the graying man myself.

"Do not lie to me!" Holmes demanded, his grip on Stephen's neck tightened, causing the older man to choke. "Your very life may depend on it."

"I was forced to! I was forced to!"

"By whom?"

"I'm not at liberty to…" his words trailed off as Holmes's fingers dug painfully into his throat.

"I will ask you again Sir. Who order you to attack both myself and Mister O'Henry? Who ordered you to attempt to take my life?"

"Schuyler," Stephens rasped. "Aaron Schuyler."

"And Randolph, was he also sent by Schuyler?"

"Who is Randolph?"

"Don't play the fool!" Holmes barked savagely. "James Randolph was your colleague during the attacks of both myself and of Mister O'Henry. Now was he also sent by Schuyler?"

"Yes, for God's sake I can't--"

"It is not my concern whether you can or cannot breathe," the consulting detective said quickly. "You can hear me regardless. Now where can I find Schuyler?"

"I don't know--" Holmes's grip tightened. Stephens began to cough and claw at the detective's hand.

"You do know and you _will_ tell me. Now where can I find Schuyler?"

"C-copper mines…goes at night…copper mines…" Stephen's voice was growing faint.

"Are you lying to me?"

"N-no…"

"Good!" Holmes removed his hand from Stephen's neck. The man fell to the ground and begin coughing and taking deep breaths simultaneously. He rubbed his throat fiercely.

"Now get up!" Holmes grabbed the man by his collar and pulled him to his feet. "Go inside and remain there if you value your life."

Stephens nodded and retreated into his house, slamming the door in his wake.

Holmes and I walked in silence until we were roughly a block away from the elder man's house. My friend stopped suddenly under a street lamp and swore loudly. "He's lying! He's lying Watson, I can feel it in my bones! Schuyler is not the power behind the malefactor; he is merely a pawn that is being manipulated!"

"How Holmes?"

"It is simple enough Watson! Over the past several days, and before I was incapacitated, I had the strongest feeling there was something more sinister to this problem than I first believed. I do not know if you realized it at the time Watson, but I pray you to cast your mind back. Do you recall when I received that threatening note I said something to the effect that I recognized it?"

I thought for several moments, conscious of the biting wind and pouring rain. I silently wished we could take this conversation inside, but I knew my friend better than that. Once he was hot upon a scent, nothing could deter him, not man nor weather. I turned up the collar of my coat and stared at the lean figure of the detective. "Yes, you did say something to that effect old man."

Holmes nodded as though to confirm what I had said. "Watson, although I did not realize it at the time, I now know what was so familiar about that threat. I do not know if you are familiar with a Mister Sigmund Freud or not."

I was, albeit vaguely. According to the Lancet, he is an Austrian doctor who specializes in dreams and the human mind. "Yes I know the name Holmes, although modern medicine considers him quite queer in his notions."

Holmes ignored my comment and continued to speak. "Freud discovered what is known as your subconscious mind, quite interesting really. It seems as though my subconscious recognized the handwriting on the letter."

"Well done Holmes," I said quickly.

"After I consciously reread the letter, and paid close attention to the handwriting, I knew my suspicions were correct. I then turned my full attention to the poisoned needle. The poison is a distinctly Eastern variety; it is the venom from the Timeresurus flavoviridis or more commonly known as the Habu. I spent numerous hours in the local library developing this theory and after my theory was complete, I sent an urgent telegram to a Mister Sherman of Pinchin Lane. You should best remember him Watson as the owner of Toby."

I nodded at the mention of the dog's name that had assisted us on numerous occasions. "Yes Holmes, he is quite a queer fellow. His knowledge of animals--"

"Has proven helpful to me in the past and continued to do so during this investigation. Not only was Mister Sherman able to confirm my hypothesis, but he was also able to refresh my memory as to the uses of the Habu venom."

"Refreshed your memory?"

"I do believe I have told you on occasion Watson that I have traveled to the Far East. During my travels I came in contact with such a snake and suffered a near fatal bite. Thankfully, the natives were able to remove the venom from my blood, thus saving my life."

"Good Lord!" I exclaimed. Holmes had never told me any details of his travels during the three years that I believed he was dead and I was completely intrigued.

"Yes quite. I had forgotten the experience until I came across a picture of the ghastly snake in one of the books I was using for research. Mister Sherman was able to remind me that the venom was and still is used for revenge. You see Watson, the poison is rarely suspected and the symptoms it causes can be numerous other Eastern diseases. Hence why it is so popular."

I shuddered from the cold and Holmes's statement. If Sherman was indeed correct, then whoever wrote the message to Holmes wanted to take some kind of revenge against him. Who could possibly wage a vendetta against him in a foreign country? I voiced my question aloud and a knowing twinkle entered his eyes.

"Who indeed?" After a few moments of silent contemplation, Holmes smiled grimly and touched my shoulder. "Come along old fellow."

"Where the deuce are we going in this infernal weather?"

"To the copper mines," then anticipating my next question, "we much see what we can learn there."

"Then you've solved the case?"

"Hardly Watson! Hardly!"

"But I thought you said--"

"I have solved it in the sense I know who the perpetrators are."

"Then you have solved it Holmes!"

"No Watson I haven't. I cannot fathom the reason for this entire affair. A simpler, much more effective method, such as a bullet through my brain would have sufficed in ridding the world of me. Granted it would not have been as colorful, but…"

So startled was I by what I was hearing, the rest of the detective's words entered my ears, rolled about in my brain and then exited, spiraling up over and around my head, any hope of grasping the meaning was gone. Can I honestly believe that the death of Mister Verne was simply a ruse to attempt Holmes's life? I feared the strain of his injuries and the case might have actually harmed his facilities. "Holmes I daresay--"

"I know what you are thinking Watson, but I assure you I have not taken leave of my senses."

"Holmes pray explain yourself."

"There is nothing to explain! I have some few loose ends that must be tied together. However, we are wasting time standing around."

"Where are you going Holmes?"

"To the copper mines of course," he replied quickly. Without another word, he strode off in the opposite direction from which we came, leaving me staring after his faint outline against the already thickening fog.

I quickly ran after him, but my progress was severely hindered by an intense burning sensation in my leg, a sensation that I have been familiar with for many years and anticipated would reoccur once I saw the pouring rain and inclement weather. However, I did not expect the dampness to settle within my bones so quickly and I was caught sorely unprepared. I scarcely ran a few paces before I was forced to slow my steps to a quick walk.

I called out to my friend but my voice was lost in the gale. Painfully I limped forward, the fog closing in thickly around me. I was vaguely aware of the sound of faint footsteps but because of the swirling miasma, I could not ascertain the direction from which they were coming.

Believing the footfalls belonged to my friend; I ceased walking and stood, rubbing my sore leg, attempting to return some circulation to the appendage. As the steps grew closer I turned in the general direction from which I thought they were coming. Suddenly, a blinding white pain filled my head and I heard a sound similar to that of a snapped twig. Before my brain could register what had happened, my knees gave way and I found myself lying face down on the cobbles. Instantly I felt something soft cover my nose and mouth and the over-powering smell of chloroform assaulted me.

My thoughts turned to Holmes's safety before the world dissolved into shades of grey and then black.


	11. At the Hands of Madness

2 _I promise the next chapter will be longer!_

Gentle lights like willow-the-wisps…

Murmuring voices in hushed ominous tones…

The harsh, bone chilling squeal of metal being pressed against grindstone…

_Dear Lord!_ I reached up to rub my numb head but my hands were bound. Looking down, I could see similar bonds on my feet. It was no use to struggle; the bonds were much too tight. Instead, I let my eyes adjust to the gloom and attempted to take in my surroundings.

I found myself lying on my left side, in what appeared to be an abandoned mine shaft. The flickering candle light caused shadows to jump across the walls, causing phantoms to appear and disappear as though they were playing a childhood game of hide-and-seek. I heard voices muttering softly, but my head throbbed too much for me to be able to comprehend anything that was being said. The only thing I was able to recognize was a sound from my days spent in Afghanistan. It was the sound of a blade being sharpened, the screeching laugher of death as she observed her unfortunate victim.

Although I knew nothing of where I found myself or who my captor was, I knew one certainty. That I was going to die. Although to most, it would have caused tendrils of fear to clench their hearts, the certainty had the opposite affect on me. It was a certainty amidst a sea of unknowns and I clung to it as though it was a lifeline. I was sure I was going to die and that firm knowledge calmed me in a way nothing else could have.

My thoughts were a jumble, a flickering montage of memories. Time seemed to abandon me at that moment and past and present merged together in a kaleidoscope of reminiscences. Images of my father and brother swam before my mind's eye, images of war-torn Afghanistan and my fallen companions, the bloody battlefield of Maiwand; Mary's face moments before she died her eyes bright and lucid, free from the pain I had seen in them for the past year. Images of Mrs. Hudson and of my boyhood companions, images of Murrary. Images of snakes and fires, pale-faced detectives, wooden-legged men and pigmies from Africa. Swirling midst and raging waterfalls, two men struggling at the edge of a chasm, both tumbling into the swirling abyss, and grey eyes filled with pain and fear.

It was the last image, of the eyes I knew so well, which caused me to groan and alerted my captors that I was conscious.

"Aye, Sir, 'e's alive, 'e is!" A voice gruff voice said, and for a moment I believed myself to be in London's East End, amongst the vicious lascars.

"It took 'im long enough to come to," another said.

"Yes, well I do believe you hurt him quiet badly. Sandra, do come over here and take a look at our recently awakened friend." The voice which spoke sounded vaguely familiar, as if I had heard it before. However, my mind was too muddied to recognize it.

A shadowy form entered my field of view and knelt close to me. After a few moments, I was able to blink away the blurry tan hollows and my eyes registered a face. When I recognized it's owner, I sharply inhaled.

"John dear, you should not look so frightened." The lilting voice of Sandra Verne said in a deceptively soothing tone. "You were not hurt badly."

I opened my mouth to speak, but all that came out was a harsh rasp. My throat, it seemed, was too dry for me to form words. It wasn't surprising of course, a higher part of my brain said. Heavy doses of chloroform over one's mouth produce a drying affect.

"What is the matter John? Can you not speak?"

I forced a minimal amount of saliva down into my throat, hopefully enough to lubricate my vocal chords and voice box. When I opened my mouth, all that escaped was a single rasping word. "Holmes."

Sandra Verne smiled mirthlessly. "I was hoping you would have said something a bit more pleasing to my ear John."

I heard a chuckle off to my right and attempted to turn my head to see to whom it belonged. The effort was futile. Apparently, my head was secured as well, rendering me completely immobile. Once again I forced my vocal chords to work. "Holmes."

I heard footsteps and suddenly saw another face in my field of view. This one was yellow, coarse-grained and greasy, with a heavy double chin and two sullen, menacing grey eyes. They glared at me from beneath two tufted and silver colored brows. "I should not be surprised," the voice was surprisingly high-pitched and once again a nagging familiarity of it tugged at my fogged brain. "The first word he speaks should be the name of his friend, who is, even now, entering my trap of death."

I felt my eyes go wide with alarm. This action was not missed upon the heavy man for he chuckled again. "Oh yes Doctor Watson. Sherlock Holmes, your dear friend, will of course, die. But fear not, you shall not have to suffer too long without him, for you too will meet your end."

Despite the gravity of the situation, I could not help but be calmed by the man's words. I knew, in all honesty, I could not face Holmes's death a second time, and the knowledge that I would be able to join him in the afterlife was enough to make my situation seem less dire.

"John, my dear one, do you recognize my friend?" Once again Sandra spoke, her voice low and enticing.

"Of course he doesn't," the man replied with a wicked smile. "I do believe he needs some help remembering exactly who I am."

"How will you do that my dear?"

Despite his heaviness, the man's movements were graceful and he reached a gnarled hand into his pocket. A moment later, it reappeared holding a small black and ivory box. He held the box to my face so that I was able to see it more clearly. "Do you recognize it?"

My eyes took in the box's details. It was small and made of black and white ivory. I noted it had a sliding lid. Once more a nagging familiarity filled my brain and I cast my mind back, in attempt to remember where I had seen a similar box. Almost instantly, the image of Holmes's bedroom came into my mind, his mantle filled with a litter of pipes, tobacco-pouches, syringes, penknives, revolver cartridges and other debris. Sitting in the midst of the chaos was a small black and white ivory box with a sliding lid. I saw myself reach forward lift it, in order to examine it closely when—

My body immediately attempted to recoil, to get away from the deadly box and the deranged man who was holding it. However, the bonds would not give and I simply succeeded in causing myself agony. When my thrashing ceased because of sheer exhaustion, my captive chuckled.

"Recognize me now Doctor?"

Sweat broke out on my forehead. "Smith," I managed. A sinking feeling entered my stomach and I had the sudden urge to retch. Fear once again had me in her tight, unyielding grasp as my imagination began to wonder what tortures Holmes and I would have to face at the hands of the madman before me. "Culverton Smith."


	12. Inside the Mind of Holmes

_Thanks to all my reviewers. This chapter, as indicated by the title, is written in Holmes's stream of consciousness. Hope you enjoy and please R&R_

I allow my jaw to clench and unclench as I continue pushing my way through the fog. Watson's footfalls echo loudly in the utter stillness of the night, grating on my nerves with each step. What the deuce is the matter with him? Surely he knows how vital silence is to an investigation! Something, however, causes me to hold my tongue in remonstrating him. I had done him a great many injustices during the course of our investigation and fear of doing irreparable harm to our friendship prevents me from saying anything further to him.

Besides, the investigation is nearly complete. Of course, Watson knows none of this. Given his overly sensitive nature, especially when my own safety is concerned, I cannot simply tell him that the man who wanted to do me harm was none other than a man who had threatened my life in my own bedroom! I know too, of course, that my 'deception' as Watson phrased it, still pains him whenever he is forced to think of it. I cannot, in good conscience, tell him the man behind the malefactor is one Mister Culverton Smith.

As far as Watson's knowledge, he simply believes we were heading to Holy Cross Cemetery for no other reason than to see what could be learned. He does not know that seven burly members of the North Arlington Police Force are in place somewhere close by, for I have already learned of Schuyler's meeting place days ago. He is also unaware that it is my intent to eavesdrop on the meeting between Mr. Aaron Schuyler and his worthless assistant John Stevens, who are pawns in Smith's game, albeit unwittingly.

Yes, they did commit murder; they were responsible for the death of Mr. Eric Nelson for the simple reason that the unfortunate man stumbled across Schuyler having relations with a Nigro woman. They did murder Sandra Verne's husband, but it was not because the man knew too much about Nelson's death. No, Mr. Stevens was a hired assassin, most probably hired by Mrs. Verne herself, to rid the world of her husband so she could continue having a clandestine affair with Culverton Smith. It is a pity really, when one deigns to think of it, how easily a woman is manipulated by her emotions. She, like the rest of the poor players, was simply a tool used by Smith to achieve his greater goal. That goal, of course, is to wreak revenge upon myself for placing him in the dock for the murder of his nephew Victor Savage.

Watson's footsteps grow louder as we approach a dilapidated building on the outskirts of the cemetery and I can stand no more of it! I duck between two houses, and turn sharply on Watson, whose figure I can just barely make out because of the deuced fog.

"What the devil are you…" my words die in my throat when I see the glint of a blade in the almost non-existent moonlight. I manage, by sheer reflexes, to jump sideways, allowing the blade to slice the air where I was standing. My assailant is stunned by his miss and I take complete advantage of the situation. With a tiger spring, I leap at him, hitting him full force and we both crash onto the slick cobbles, his knife clattering loudly as it is jarred from his grip.

We struggle for several moments, each of us attempting to have the advantage over the other. Despite my physical strength and knowledge of bartisu, I am weakened by the dizzying thoughts that are rushing through my brain.

My assailant senses this weakness and begins raining blows upon my chest and stomach, many of which I am ill prepared to defend myself again. Grunts of pain escape my lips but still I cannot adequately fight back. Something akin to panic is closing around my heart, making it difficult to place my blows. Where is Watson? What has happened to him? Then a thought enters my mind that momentarily paralyzes me. What if Smith has gotten to Watson before I have gotten to Smith?

As my mind turns over that terrifying thought, my assailant's blows no longer cause me physical pain. I have always spoken of the power of the mind and I am not surprised that the pain receptors in my extremities have shut down when the agony of panic filled me.

After a few moments, rage begins to replace panic in my mind and, fueled with hatred for Smiam able to strategically place a sharp blow with the side of my palm against my assailant's larynx. He gasps once and falls backward, clutching his throat. I waste no time and my hands are promptly 'round this throat. Fear for Watson's safety causes my hands to tighten considerably round the neck of the man. Almost immediately, he drops his own hands from this throat, seemingly surrendering to me.

"Where is Watson?" I bark angrily.

By way of response, the man favors me with an indolent smile.

My fear for my friend is mounting and threatens to crash upon me at any moment. It is a struggle to keep my voice steady for fear causes it to tremble. My deductions, I think dryly, regarding emotion are completely correct. When faced with emotion of any sort, the logical faculty has a way of shutting down. "Who the devil are you? Did Smith send you? By God, if you've harmed Watson in any way--"

Suddenly, pain explodes; white-hot that courses through my body. The pain is so intense that at first, I cannot even locate from where it is originating. I fall backwards; my head striking the cobbles as my hands, seemingly on their on accord grasp my abdomen. Suddenly I feel it; smooth wood amidst a sea of sticky liquid agony. A higher part of my brain reasons that the man who attacked me had managed, while I was in fear's grasp, to stab me with a knife that was concealed somewhere about his person.

As my fingers brush against the smooth knife handle, my stomach lurches and my head begins to swim with pain.

"Ya wanted ta know where yer friend was?"

His words are as garbled as if he was speaking to me from underwater. I know I must fight against the converging blackness, I know I must focus on what the man is saying but I do not seem to posses the strength these actions require. He says something more but I am beyond the ability to distinguish his words. Pain completely fills me and I want nothing more than to lie here and die.

"I said ya wanted ta know where yer friend is?"

My friend? Is that what he said? Watson! Suddenly his face swims before my mind's eye, his concern filled brown eyes bore into mine with such a pleading look that I am able to somewhat focus on the man's voice. I will do anything for Watson, even forfeit my own life. I must know that he is alive, I must have tangible proof that he is not harmed before I can set forth on the journey from which no traveler returns.

I try hard to swallow, but my throat muscles constrict and then release, causing a river of blood to issue forth from my mouth. I hear my assailant laugh. Spasms of pain rip through me as my stomach convulses but I attempt to keep my rising gorge at bay. I must find Watson!

"Wuh—Watson!" I cannot believe it is my own voice that is stammering so.

"Ya want ta know where he is?"

"Yes," I mutter my voice is ridiculously soft.

"I 'pose I could 'elp ya ta find 'im. 'E'll be dead soon 'nyway."

His words chill me although I refuse to succumb to my rising fear. With all my strength, I force myself to attempt to stand, but I can only go as far as my knees. The pain is just too great. "Wuh-where is he?"

"I do believe suh that yous were a-headin' to the cem'tary 'fore I 'rived."

"Yes," I whisper. My heart flutters briefly and I wonder how long before I die. Enough time, I just need enough time to get to Watson.

"Then I sug-gest ya'll continue thar. Ya might find who yer lookin' fer," without another word, he turns on his heel and walks in the opposite direction.

I want to cry out but I know I cannot do so. I must somehow conserve my strength. Never in my life have I ever felt such physical agony. Slowly, gritting my teeth to hold back the blood that is slowly filling the back of my throat, I place my hands in front of me and begin to crawl. Watson, I must get to Watson.


	13. Rememberance

_Hey all! I am so sorry that I have not updated sooner, but college is much more time consuming than I orginally thought. However, I promise I will make it up to you! I am updating a few chapters today which I hope you will enjoy. Please R&R thanks!_

Watson

"Ah, so you do remember me then?" Smith asked, smiling genially.

I opened my mouth but all that exited was a croak of rage. Here I was, face to face with mine own enemy, Culverton Smith. He was not, to me at any rate, a man who killed his nephew. No, to me this man was a murderer of a different shade. He was responsible for the death of my total trust in Sherlock Holmes. It was because of the man kneeling beside me that Holmes was once again forced to deceive me. This man caused me to look Holmes's death in the eye a second time. It was because of him that things could never be the same between Holmes and me.

"I daresay Doctor, you are looking a bit flushed," Smith said, his voice light.

"I hate you," I barked angrily. Although I knew speaking with a throat as dry as mine could permanently damage my vocal chords, I could not stop the flow of words that were exiting my mouth. "You are a murderer! A coward! You are nothing to me but--"

"Easy Doctor Watson," Smith said, his fingers playing with the ivory box. "Do not work yourself into a fit of apoplexy. Not before we see my little show."

"What?" I was confused by his statement. "What show?"

"You will find out soon, fear not." Before another word was uttered, I felt something soft cover my eyes and darkness surrounded me once again.


	14. Into The Fire

_A bit more dramatic this chapter, I hope! Please let me know what you think!_

Holmes

Never before have I ever felt such agony! Each movement I make causes my stomach to contract and blood to exit my mouth in a fierce rush. My vision is blurring and dark shadows are pulling at the corners of my eyes. However I know I cannot succumb to death, not until I rescue Watson.

My mind is slowly being robbed of its blood supply and my thoughts are a jumble of still photographs in my mind. Watson's concerned filled brown eyes as they stare at my syringe. Watson's ardent gaze as it fell on Miss Mary Morstan. Those same brown eyes filled with fear and helplessness as they stared at me when he believed me to be dying.

It was the last image that caused another sheen of sweat to break forth upon my brow. How I had wronged him in the past! His eyes filled with shock as I blatantly questioned his loyalties earlier this evening. I must apologize to him for all the wrongs I have done him. The only way I can do that is by saving his life.

I force my wretched body to move forward, although it is a struggle to keep upon my hands and knees. I long to stand, but I know I do not have the strength the task would require. It is through sheer force of will that I raise my head and observe the black wrought iron gate in the near distance. It beckons me forward for behind it lays both my life and my death. I must make an exchange, Watson's life for my death. A more willing transaction I have never made.

As though I were Faustus signing the contract with Mephistopheles, some demon force renews some of my strength and I am able to crawl the few hundred yards without stopping to force air into my exhausted lungs. Fire is inside my swollen abdomen, but like all physical pain, one grows accustomed to it. All I can picture is Watson's brown eyes, pleading me to rescue him from his capturer. The image nearly drives me mad.

I force myself to kneel upright, and I feel the cold steel beneath my hands. Suddenly, a spasm of pain rips through me and I collapse into the dirt. The impact drives the knife deeper into my gut, but I am beyond caring. I cannot save Watson! I do not have the strength! But I cannot, will not, allow him to die at the hands of Smith! He has given me a lot over our long association; he showed me the true meaning of brotherly love, he has shown me trust. He has been my dearest friend, my loyal Boswell, and my staunchest companion, whom I have wronged like no other. I made him believe me dead, put him through hell! I must show him I care, I must save him.

Once again I force back the shadows that are pulling at my eyes. I manage to summon my strength and with a great deal of effort, manage, with the aid of the wrought iron gate, to pull myself into somewhat of a standing position.

I stumble into the cemetery and look around, hoping to see some trace of the North Arlington Policemen who are assisting me. However, I see none. Either they are true to their word and remain concealed until I sound my whistle, the damned fog hiding them or they never bothered to arrive at all. I severely hope for the former but am prepared for the latter. I stagger forward, until I reach what I believe to be the center of the area. Using a headstone for support, I allow my eyes to close and I focus solely on getting air into and out of my exhausted lungs.

As I stand, attempting to collect the remainder of my failing strength, I allow my blood slicked fingers to reach into my pocket and extract the gun. Each movement causes me extreme pain but I attempt to ignore it. Finally, my fingers are able to release my gun from the confines of my pocket. With trembling fingers, I open the chamber to check the amount of ammunition. I groan when I see that I only have enough to squeeze off two shots. What a fool am I!

Suddenly, a loud crash sounds off to my right and I turn my head in attempt to affix what it is. The movement causes my stomach to retch and a rush of blood to exit my mouth. It is through sheer willpower that I do not collapse. As sweat pours off my body, I slowly right myself, leaning heavily on the granite slab in front of me. With shaking hands I hold my gun in a shooting position.

"Drop the gun Mister Holmes or the doctor dies."

The voice causes me to start violently, causing another spasm of pain to rip through me. With slightly blurry vision, I look to my left to find two grey eyes floating ominously in the swirling fog. Instantly, I recognize the eyes. "Smith," I whisper, my voice hoarse with pain.

"You heard me Mr. Holmes," Smith says, his voice full of malice. "Drop the gun and remain silent. Or else, your friend dies."

My fogged mind struggles to comprehend the situation. I have no idea how Smith could have eluded the seven policemen, but that is not my foremost concern. I briefly toy with the idea of sounding my whistle which should, in theory, cause the men in uniform to rush to my aid. The dryness of my throat and the knowledge that such an action would kill Watson causes me to think against it. Instead, I decide to comply with the madman.

Keeping my eyes locked with his, I bend down slight, gritting my teeth to keep myself from crying out in pain as the knife handle touches my bottommost rib. I drop the gun at my feet.

"Very good, very good. I am glad to see you are obedient. Now you must take three steps forward Mister Sherlock Holmes, that is, only if you want to see your friend alive."

My thoughts are solely on Watson's well-being and I stagger forward one pace. I am about to take another step when I hear a pained cry followed by Watson's haggard voice. "Holmes, for God's sake don't!"

"You keep silent!" I hear Smith bark at Watson but I cannot see the figure of my friend. His shout of pain, however, flecks me to the raw.

"Watson!" The name escapes my parched lips and I stumble forward once again in vain attempt to help my ailing Boswell. "Watson! Please!"

Smith rounds on me fiercely. "I told you to remain quiet Holmes! If you want to save his worthless life, then you will follow my instructions to the letter. Do you understand?"

I attempt to nod, but the effort causes my stomach to lurch. A metallic taste of blood suddenly enters my mouth. I fight hard to keep my body in my control. I manage to hiss out the single word of 'yes' before another gush of blood exits my body via my mouth. Coldness is quickly descending upon me and I am fighting to keep myself steady on my feet.

"I believe you are to take one more step sir."

How one takes advantage of the simple task of moving one foot in front of the other! Although I am conscious, my brain seems to stop receiving signals from my nerves for my feet and legs refuse to yield to my unbendable will.

"Are you reconsidering my offer Mr. Holmes?" Smith says genially. Because of the fog and darkness, he cannot see how badly I am injured. He mistakes my immobile state as a lack of courage and, if I had the strength, I would have been filled with even more hatred for the man. "I could easily kill your friend right now and let you free."

"No," I manage to spit out. "No, I do not."

Another cry of pain from Watson seems to be what my legs need for I instantly stumble forward. As I do so, something sharp closes about my leg causing me to loose my balance. As I fall, I feel a heavy blow to the head.

As I land on my stomach, stars explode before my eyes and then there is absolute nothingness.


	15. Death is Such an Odd Thing

**AN: I want to say thank you to all of those who have read this story thus far. I would also like to especially thank those who have so kindly reviewed this fic. There is, of course still more to come but college life has a terrible way with interferring with my writing time. However, I will try to finish this fic as quickly as possible. Please note, I have gone out on a limb with this chapter, using a scene in Stephen King's It as somewhat of a model. The internet too is an invaluable tool and I have spent a lot of time reseraching this one. But if there are a few inconsistancies or far-reaches, I ask ahead of time, to please forgive me. I have tried to keep this as real as possible. Please read and review. And most of all enjoy the latest installment! Oh yeah, I still don't own Holmes, Watson of Culverton Smith. Any other characters that you don't recognize, they're mine! Enjoy!

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Watson

I heard a grunt from Holmes and attempted to move forward but the brutish man who was holding me held me fast and continued to apply pressure to the back of my skull, where I believed I had a fracture. Although I could not see very clearly, the deuced fog being so thick, I saw the outline of Holmes crumple to the ground and instantly fear clawed at me.

"Holmes! Holmes!" My arms were pulled more fiercely, but fear for my friend prevented me from feeling the agony I should have. Never in my life have I seen Holmes succumb to anything so easily. Fear flooded me along with adrenaline and I forced my way out of the man known as Steven's grasp. With no regard for my own safety, I ran forward to where I believed Holmes had fallen.

Before I reached my friend, I found myself caught in the strong arms of Culverton Smith himself. "No Doctor Watson, I do not believe you will be helping Mr. Sherlock Holmes this time. At least not yet."

"He could be hurt."

"I'm sure he is Doctor. However, that is not your concern. If you continue to struggle, he will certainly die." His words filled me with dread and it was fear for Holmes that caused me to stop struggling. "That's right Doctor," Smith said, pushing me away from Holmes's fallen form. "Stevens!"

"Aye Sir?"

"Take Doctor Watson to the building. I shall be along shortly with the detective."

Before I could say another word, I felt the sharp, cold steel of a knife blade against my skin. "Ya tried ta run off before an' now I aint takin' no chances. Let's go."

Knowing Holmes could possibly need medical attention, I allowed Stevens to lead me deeper into the cemetery.

"How do I know he's still alive?" I asked in spite of myself.

"Aint yer concern right now, is it?" Stevens pushed me from behind and held the knife to the small of my back with one hand, my arms tightly with his other.

"Ya jus' keep walkin' that a-way Doc an' yer gone see yer friend soon, I assure you."

Not being a religious man by nature, I found myself praying for the first time since my Mary's death. I begged the unseen deity to spare Holmes's life, begged Him to help us escape from the dire circumstances we were in.

As Stevens and I made our way through the cemetery, I found myself muttering half-forgotten prayers from my youth. "Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name."

"Keep prayin'," Stevens said, not bothering to hide the sneer in his voice. "Yer gone need more 'an that ta 'elp ya."

I do not know how far we walked but after what seemed like several agonizing hours, I found myself being thrown into a bare, dimly lit room. The only furnishings were an ancient mantle, a worn desk and chair and what appeared to be a wrought iron hook in one of the walls. It was to this hook that I found myself being tied to.

"'Ere now," Stevens said with a sly grin. "We're 'ome sweet home!" He said with a grin as he finished tying my restraints. He turned on his heel and called out in almost a friendly tone to Mrs. Sandra Verne. "Aye Sandra! 'Ere now, the good ole doc is back."

Shortly after he spoke some interior door was slammed closed and Sandra entered, carrying what appeared to be some sort of tray in her hands. She looked over me with a critical eye.

"John dear," she crooned, caressing my face with one of her soft hands. I turned my head sharply away from her; the movement elicited a chuckle from her, which would have otherwise caused my heart to pound with desire. However, it now pounded with intense hatred. "Aw, now don't be cruel." Her hand continued to stroke my face. "You do not look at all handsome with a black eye. I daresay that you suffered ill from John Stevens's rough handling."

I chose to ignore her comment and glared at her acridly. "Where is Holmes?" My parched throat ached as I spoke the words.

Sandra shrugged her feminine shoulders and lifted what appeared to be a porcelain cup. "How ever should I know?" She stepped toward me, a small smile playing across her lips. When we were not a foot from one another, she raised the cup towards my lips. "Here," she said softly. "Drink this."

I shook my head in the negative. "No," I said quickly. I trusted none of them, especially Sandra Verne.

"Now John, I would not hurt you."

If I had the saliva, I would have spat in her face. "You're an incredibly poor liar Mrs. Verne."

"I am not lying John," she said quickly. "If I honestly wanted to harm you, I would have done so weeks ago."

I had to admit to myself that she had a point. "You deceived Holmes and me," I countered angrily. "How do I know I can trust you now?"

As an answer, Sandra raised the cup to her lips and took a rather large sip. I watched as she swallowed the liquid. "It's simply water," she said, once again proffering me the cup. "It will ease your poor throat. I know how drying chloroform can be."

I nodded, acknowledging the fact that she was correct.

"Then drink John. There is no point being stubborn." To punctuate her words, she moved the cup to my lips and swirled the clear water around. My eyes gazed at it hungrily.

"Come now John, do not be obstinate."

I swallowed, contemplating my decision. Finally, the basic need of thirst won and I motioned for the cup with my head. Gently, Sandra's arm snaked around my neck and tilted my head slightly backwards, while pouring life essence down my parched throat.

To most the water would have been revolting, but to me it tasted like sweet honey. The throat was instantly soothed and I was able to once again speak. I drained the cup in three large gulps. Once the cup was empty, Sandra removed it from my lips but allowed her hand to linger about my neck. Slowly, she began tracing tiny arousing circles on my nape.

I attempted to shake her off but my efforts were only met by a small smile. "How you enjoyed this the other night."

Instantly I felt my cheeks catch fire as I was reminded of my moments of intimacy with the very woman who was now my capture. "And how you were the poor helpless victim the other night." I said with as much bite as possible.

"Oh John dear, there is no reason to be unkind. Surely we can be civil with each other."

"Civility is reserved for humans, not animals like yourself."

Suddenly, the door leading to the interior of the room was thrown open. Sandra leapt at the sound and the following actions seemed as though they were happening in slow motion. I saw Holmes's bloody body enter the door; saw Smith's hands push him forward. Then, as the hands moved away from his body, he jerked once before collapsing on the floor. I heard my own voice scream my friends name as I thrashed, attempting to free myself from the bonds that were restraining me.

"Holmes! Holmes!" I could not stop myself from shrieking when I saw his ghastly appearance.

He was a ghastly shade of white and his limbs were twitching spasmodically. A large gash was in his right leg, and a steady stream of blood was issuing from it. The rise and falling action of his chest was unsteady, showing that he was breathing shallowly. His face was turned towards me, his eyes closed. Sweat was on his forehead and his lips had an unnaturally bluish tint to them. "Holmes!"

The sound of my voice seemed to cut through the veil of unconsciousness that surrounded my friend and he opened his eyes, which were slightly glazed. "Watson?" His voice was barely above a whisper. It was when he struggled to rise that I saw the true extent of his injuries. At the sight of his bloody shirt and the protruding knife handle, my blood turned to ice in my veins.

"Watson?" His voice was soft and the effort of speaking seemed to exhaust him. "Is that you?"

I licked my dry lips and I felt tears prickle in my eyes. "Holmes, yes, it's me. Please, don't move."

"Wuh-Watson, ugh-are yuh-you hurt?"

"No," I whispered, afraid my voice would betray the emotions I was feeling.

"Duh-hon't lie t-to muh-me," he rasped. To the last gasp, he would be the master. "I cuh-can huh-hear it in yuh-your voice."

"I'm not hurt too badly," I replied, my own injuries nothing compared with those of my friend. I felt fear and rage struggle for dominance within me. I turned to Sandra Verne, whose face with the color of freshly fallen snow, her eyes wide with fear. "Please," I said, uncaring that my voice caught in my throat. "He needs medical attention immediately."

She seemed not to hear me; her mouth was set in a silent scream as she stared at my friend.

"Sandra, please! He needs help! He'll die, he'll die if I don't save him," I cried. Tears were freely streaming down my face.

"What happened to him?" She asked, more to herself than to me.

I struggled fiercely against my bonds. The rope was biting into the flesh of my wrists, but I was beyond caring about my own physical pain. "Please! He needs help!"

"That, Doctor Watson, is not my concern!" Culverton Smith said as he strode into the room. To accentuate his words, he kicked Holmes in the solar-plexus, causing him to vomit blood.

"Holmes!" I felt my face pale as my friend slumped to the ground and did not move. "Dear Lord! Holmes!"

"I am growing weary of his name," Smith said testily. "Honestly Doctor Watson, is that all you can say?"

It was then that adrenaline once again filled me. I broke free of the rope that held me and rushed to my friend. At the sound of the snapping ropes, Stevens came rushing in, but Smith's voice stopped him from delivering a blow to me. "Leave him Stevens. Just allow him to help his friend."

The ominous chuckle chilled me. But I cared not about him. I eased my friend onto his back and cradled him close to my body in attempt to restore some warmth to his frigid limbs. "It's all right Holmes," I whispered softly.

He opened his pain filled grey eyes and stared at me, uncomprehendingly. "Watson, I—I'm suh-so sorry." His eyes were shining brightly and his lips were turning a darker shade of blue. "Smith…I…tried…save…yuh—you."

"Holmes I…" my words trailed off when I heard the first stirrings of a sob in my voice. I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump that was forming in my throat. I could not show my emotions, I could not give Smith that satisfaction. I had to remain strong for Holmes."It's going to be all right Holmes." I held my friend tightly, before laying him on his back. Even a cursory examination showed from his swollen and hard stomach that he was suffering from internal bleeding. My friend needed immediate medical attention, something that was not going to be gotten here.

"Smith," I said, turning my eyes to those of the madman. "Smith he needs help. Please, show some compassion."

"Compassion Doctor Watson?" Smith asked, kneeling down on the other side of my friend. Our eyes locked but before I could do anything, I felt my arms being yanked back behind me. Ignoring the fire in my limbs and the coarse bite of rope, I continued to stare into the man's eyes.

"Yes. Have a heart Smith."

Smith allowed his hands to hover over Holmes's swollen stomach. Madness glittered in his eyes. "You want to see my heart Doctor?"

Fear clawed at me when I saw Holmes in such a vulnerable position. His head was against the floor, sweat covered his face and his breaths were becoming shallower as the seconds ticked past. The knife handle protruded from his stomach in much the same way I saw bayonets protruding from Ghazis in Afghanistan.

"Do you want to see my great heart doctor?" Smith repeated calmly. Stevens's arms wrapped tightly around my chest, preventing me from lashing out at Smith. All I could do was shake my head in the negative. "No," I muttered, fearing for both Holmes and myself.

Smith smiled and allowed his hand to close around the knife handle. "You tangled with the wrong man Holmes," he snarled. "You should have left Victor's death alone, but you couldn't could you? Of course not. Now look at you! What do you think of this position Holmes?"

When he received no answer from the great detective, Smith allowed his eyes to once again rest upon my face. "How I would much rather your situations reversed. I would much prefer him having to watch you suffer in the same manner are you are watching him. For I have no real vendetta against you Doctor Watson, for you did honestly believe that Holmes was dying."

I flinched at his words, an action that was not missed by Smith.

"Ah so you still remember that feeling eh Doctor? You remember seeing him, much like he is now, vulnerable and dying? You never felt so helpless, did you?" Smith's voice took on a mockingly gentle tone. "And then Doctor, how did you feel when you learned he deceived you? That he took your trust and your loyalty and used them against you? And you called me heartless Doctor? Surely, he is the crueler, do you not agree?

'And then, before that, faking his own death? Tsk! Tsk! How could he use you in such a fashion? You did feel used, didn't you Doctor Watson? Didn't you feel betrayed? How could he care for you, when he simply used you in such a manner? Why remain friends with him, when he will simply walk over your good-natured spirit anytime the fancy suits him?"

Although I tried my best to ignore the madman's words, they cut me to the core. They reminded me once again of how heartless my friend could be. Everything Smith had said was true. He nailed my feelings down so completely that I was in utter shock and could not speak.

This reaction must have heartened Smith for he continued to speak doggedly. "He made you grieve for him Doctor. He deceived you twice Doctor Watson, I pray you to remember that. How do you know he is not deceiving you now?"

"He couldn't be," I said, my voice quiet. My eyes took in his blue lips, his unhealthy pallor, his shaking limbs and hard stomach, which was penetrated by a knife.

"Of course he could be! A bit of make-up, some apparatus to appear as a knife, some acting…" He allowed his words to trail off, leaving me to contemplate them.

I once again looked at my friend, Smith's words wringing in my ears. I could not believe Holmes would deceive me again, not when the situation seemed so dire. But could he? His lips were a dark shade of blue, but was it a natural tint? Could someone's pallor be that pale? He fooled me with tremors in his limbs before, did he not? Mentally I cursed myself for letting Smith's words get the better of me. Holmes would not, could not act so well! Some part of my mind continued to nag doubt. Or could he?

"Wuh-Wuh-Watson," Holmes's voice was so soft and so sudden that it caught both Smith and myself off guard. "Watson…I…I…" he took a deep shuddering breath and coughed, blood dribbled down his chin. "Wuh-Watson, I wouldn't…duh-didn't mean…hurt you…nuh-never again…" His words were quickly loosing their coherency and it was at that moment I knew Smith had almost manipulated me into believing him!

"You monster!" I barked at Smith, rage filling my voice.

Smith ignored my words and smiled at Holmes. "So you are awake then are you?"

Stubbornly, Holmes refused to answer him.

Smith, using his open palm, pressed hard against Holmes's torso, causing the detective to fairly scream in pain.

"Stop!" I shouted, struggling once more to free myself. "Stop!"

Smith, however, showed no desire to stop his torture and increased pressure. Holmes's eyes went wide and tears of agony streamed down his cheeks. He attempted to wriggle away but Smith gave him no opportunity. Pressing steadily downward on my friend's stomach, Smith turned to Sandra, who was watching the entire situation with horrified eyes. "Come here darling, for I need your help."

I was horrified when Sandra Verne, the woman I had made love to, stepped to Smith's side, and awaited his instructions.

"Take that knife Sandra," Smith said indicating the one protruding from Holmes. "And I want to you shift it up and down. Do you think you can do that?"

"No!" My voice was suddenly rising to a hysterical pitch. "No! You'll kill him! Holmes!"

"Can you do that Sandra?" Smith asked, leaning harder against Holmes. "Can you?"

With trembling hands, Sandra Verne clutched the knife.

"Now show me," Smith said, planting a kiss on her neck. "Show me what you are going to do."

With slow precision, the woman began moving the knife back and forth, increasing the wound.

"Dear Lord no!" Panic filled me when I saw the stark whiteness of Holmes's face. Tears of rage and fear threatened to spill from my eyes but I refused to let them. Instead I stared at Holmes. His eyes were wide with shock. Animalistic growls and shrieks were emanating from his throat as his torturers continued their frenzied work.

"How does this feel Mr. Holmes?" Smith asked, suddenly pressing down on Sandra's hands. The knife moved a quarter of an inch deeper into the detective's torso. When Holmes gave no answer, Smith pounded his fist into the detective's stomach, causing Holmes to vomit blood. "You will answer me when I speak to you Holmes."

My friend lifted his head slightly and his pain filled grey eyes bored into mine. Never before have I felt so helpless. I was literally watching my dearest friend die. Despite the tortures his body was undergoing, his eyes never left my face. His mouth was working but no sound was exiting.

Suddenly, as I stared into his face, I saw his lips formulate the word 'knot.' It took me a moment before I realized what he was saying. Although my wrists were numb and caked with dried blood, and Stevens was holding me tightly, I was able to manipulate my sore fingers to find the knot in the rope, which, much to my surprise, was not tied well.

Frantically, I began clawing at the knot, being mindful of Stevens's arms around me. Mentally I sighed when I felt the rope give a little. My eyes never left Holmes's face and I saw it grow paler by the second. His lips formed another word, one that made no sense to me. 'Run.' Again he screeched as Smith's fist found a new, more painful area. His eyes filled with tears, but he did not allow his gaze to waver.

I remembered where I had seen his eyes like that. It was when I was first dragged into Smith's lair, and my mind was throwing together a jumble of memories. His eyes held the same fear and pain they did when Evans had shot me. The word 'run' finally made sense to me. He could not bear me seeing him suffer. Smith, I realized, had won. He was tormenting Holmes through me.

It was that thought which spurned my fingers to work faster and suddenly, I felt the rope slacken and it dropped to the floor with a thud. Before Stevens could register what had happened, I used my body weight and knocked myself into him. I tumbled on top of him and landed a punch squarely in the underside of his jaw. The man's teeth locked together and his head slumped to the ground.

My movements caused both Smith and Sandra to look up from their work. I glanced once more at Holmes and our eyes locked. Blood was running in a small rivulet from the corner of his mouth. Each of us seemed to be staring into the others' soul. With tears in his eyes he once again forced his mouth to work. I was expecting 'help' or some other phrase that would have prompted a quick reaction on my part to save him. However, he cared not for himself. His mouth worked out the word 'run' once again.

I nodded briefly, showing him that I understood. My own mind was fervently working out a plan. When I nodded, he smiled slightly, a tired smile which caused my heart to cleave in two. That was all I needed. In typical rugby form I ran forward and tackled Smith, forcing his hands away from Holmes. The two of us struggled on the ground for dominance, but my rage was such that the smaller man would not win.

We struggled for some moments, until I managed to pin Smith's arms behind his head. I was panting heavily; my body was not use to such exercise. "You will let us go Smith."

"I am sorry Doctor Watson but I cannot do that."

"You can and you will Smith!"

"Doctor Watson," his voice was eerily calm and his eyes shone brightly with insanity. "While I am touched by your strong sentiments, I pray you to realize the situation. Your friend is, even as we speak, loosing the five pints of blood which are vital to his survival. Suppose you do manage, my dear doctor, to fight your way past my guards which are armed and standing at the doors and do manage to bring the detective to the hospital. Do you honestly think they will be able to save him?"

I nodded despite fear's hand clutching my heart. "Of course, he has internal bleeding and has lost a great deal of blood, but neither of those conditions is beyond the realm of any half way competent physician."

"Do you honestly believe he can be rushed to a hospital so quickly? Honestly Doctor, you know nothing of the geography of this town."

My mind attempted to process what was being said. "There must be a hospital close by."

"Doctor Watson, the closest one is ten miles away. Surely, you do not believe you can send them a telegram from here do you? I know Mr. Holmes does not credit you with high intelligence, but surely Doctor Watson, you must have more sense than that."

My heart suddenly began to pound wildly in my chest. I risked taking my eyes away from Smith and allowed them to take in the pain filled countenance of my friend. His eyelids were closed and he was barely breathing. His stomach appeared to be like a board underneath his shirt and a small rivulet of blood issued forth from his parted lips. Suddenly the utter helplessness of the situation struck me and my own Reichenbach exited my eyes.

"Do not cry Doctor Watson," Smith said with mock empathy. "You will join him in death. I am not so cruel as to separate such an esteemed partnership."

"Take my life now Smith," I cried angrily. "Take my life and be done! Spare him, and spare me the hurt of having to live his death a second time! If you have any kind of heart Smith you will kill me before he dies."

"No!" The feeble cry that escaped my friend's lips startled both Smith and myself. I allowed my tear filled eyes to rest on my friend, who was struggling weakly to rise. "No!"

I leapt off Smith, pushed past Sandra Verne and knelt by Holmes's side. With gentle hands I eased his shoulders back onto the ground. I swallowed several times before I dared to speak. "Easy Holmes," I whispered when he began weakly thrashing, in effort to free himself from my grip. "It's me. It's Watson."

"Wuh--"

"Hush now," I said, blinking back tears. "You must save your strength."

He forced himself to swallow. "Yuh-hoo, must…" he gasped for air and tightly closed his eyes. "…duh-hon't…yuh-hoo muh-hust luh-hive…Luh-heave muh-he and guh-ho."

His selflessness cleaved my heart and I began sobbing in earnest. "No! You're my dearest friend and I can't, I won't leave you Holmes." I held him tightly to my breast, and sobbed. "I won't leave you, I won't."

"Wuh-Watson--"

"I shan't listen to anything you say Holmes. It is by your side that I belong and by your side I will remain."

He shuddered once and forced his eyes open. As I stared into the pain filled, unending grey depths, I saw something there that I had never seen before; I saw an unguarded expression of love. He smiled faintly and rasped my name. "Wuh-Watson…" Suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.

"No!" The word escaped my lips suddenly and was whisked away on the currents of the air. "No." One familiar word, a small denial. "No." Something, at that moment was pulled from my chest and I felt myself begin to tremble. "No, no, no…" I leaned forward and gathered him close to me, attempting to restore some warmth to his quickly cooling limbs. "No." I felt a hand on my shoulder but I cared not for my own fate. My life no longer mattered, not while the string holding his was quickly unraveling.

Smith, I prayed, would end my life quickly; a simple bullet through the brain, for a hole already pierced my heart. "No."

"John I--"

The soft voice had, in a time that seemed so long ago, filled me with desire. However, now the same voice filled me with unspeakable rage. I turned fiercely, my friend still lying limply in my arms and, Lord help me, struck Sandra Verne as hard as I could across the face.

My rage was suddenly freed and I leapt with all my strength upon Smith, allowing my fingers to dig deeply into the flesh of his throat. He thrashed beneath me and Stevens, who regained consciousness, rained violent blows upon my back. I was beyond feeling. I allowed my hands to increase their pressure and I smiled grimly when I felt the strong larynx crack beneath my palms. Suddenly, Smith's thrashing ceased.

Like a caged beast, I then leapt upon Stevens, who was prepared for my attack. My chin was met by a rude uppercut which sent me sprawling to the floor. My head struck the hard concrete and it took me a moment to recover from the daze. By the time I finally did, however, I heard Steven's running footsteps echo in the corridor. I briefly entertained the idea of giving chase but ignored the idea. Instead I once again knelt beside Holmes's inert form, and a new wave of tears issued forth from my eyes, falling onto the alabaster of my friend, streaking through the caked blood that rested there.

"Oh Holmes," I sobbed, and ran one of my hands through his thick, luxurious hair, freeing it from his sweat soaked forehead. His breathing was quickly growing shallower and I knew he was not long for this world. His situation was dire and he needed a hospital immediately. However, I could not possibly risk moving him. Either way he would die and I would be bereft. "Holmes, I am so sorry. So sorry."

"John," my name was whispered so suddenly that I jumped. I turned and once again I found myself looking at Sandra Verne. A bruise was quickly forming on her cheekbone where I had struck her and her own eyes were brimming with tears. "John is he--"

"What do you care?" I barked savagely. "He is as good as…so please take my own life now and be done."

"John don't speak such words! I am no monster!"

"You are," I retorted hotly. "You've killed both of us, don't you realize that?" Fatigue was suddenly filling me, fatigue mixed with panic as my friend's pulse was growing weaker. "You've killed both of us."

"How can you say that?"

"He needs a hospital," I was choking on my own words. "I cannot move him. He'll die here. Then I will take that knife and cut my own throat. I cannot bear his death again." I was surprised how calmly I spoke these words and duly noted how Sandra Verne's face paled.

"I'll go get help John."

"There's no time," I whispered hoarsely. "The clock has run out." I gently lifted Holmes's head and held it close to my breast. "His clock has run out." The movement caused something to fall out of his shirt front and hit the ground with a soft metallic clang. When I saw what it was, my heart stopped.

"John? John what is that?"

"His police whistle," I muttered as I lifted the tiny object from the ground. A faint glimmer of hope entered my breast. He would not carry it unless some police were nearby. I took a deep breath and issued a blast loudly. "Why did you not use it?" Suddenly, the reason hit me. He would not put my life in danger by summoning the police. My heart began to quake. "Holmes."

Once again his eyelids fluttered but he did not have sufficient strength to raise them. "Wuh-Watson."

"Holmes, help is on its way. Can you hear me? Help is on the way."

He gave no outward sign that he had heard me and I feared he had once again slipped into unconsciousness. "This is my fault! If I hadn't been so damned blind, if I hadn't trusted Sandra Verne, God! If I had listened to you, none of this would have happened! I've killed you!"

"Nuh-nuh-ho…Wuh—Watson…nuh-nuh-no…" His voice trailed off and he struggled for breath.

"Easy Holmes," I whispered. Once again I issued a strong blast on the police whistle. _Where the deuce are they? Where?_

After what seemed like hours, but was in reality, only a matter of minutes, I heard pounding feet against stone floor. "This way!" It was Sandra Verne's voice and I closed my eyes. I had allowed her to escape and she was now returning with Smith's guards to finish the job. A faint smile played across my lips when I realized Holmes and I would be partaking on the adventure from which no traveler returns, together. Thankfully, our partnership would remain in death, as it did in life.

"In here," Sandra's voice was loud and tinged with urgency. It was strange really, for I did not realize that she had left.

The echoing footfalls grew louder and Holmes's pulse fainter. His body convulsed once and his eyes snapped open. He clutched at my shirt front, tearing the material, his face screwed up in a look of intense anguish, his mouth opened wide in attempt to release a scream which refused to leave its resting place in the back of this throat. Then just as quickly, the spasm passed and he grew utterly still.

My heart was torn from my chest and a spasm of grief ripped through my body, causing all strength to leave my limbs. I fell to the ground, my body draped unceremoniously across his narrow chest; my one fist pounded the ground in agony while the fingers of my other hand clutched at his shirtsleeve. As the echoing sound of footsteps grew closer, my overwrought mind shut down entirely and I fell into blissful unconsciousness.

Holmes

_Voices fill my ears but it seems as though they are speaking to me from underwater, their words completely unrecognizable. My mind attempts to decipher the words but it is much too difficult. Something is clouding my judgment, something blocking my reasoning skills from working properly, but I naught know what. _

_Suddenly a thought enters my overtaxed brain and it fills me with fear. Watson! Is he alive? I struggle to open my eyes but my eyelids feel heavy. I have not sufficient strength of move them even the tiniest fraction. I swallow multiple times and manage to open my mouth. "Watson." My voice is rasping and sounds foreign to my own ears. Vaguely I hear a voice much like my friend's tell me everything was fine but I cannot be certain. _

_Morpheus is beckoning to me and I am so fatigued that I cannot but heed his call. His arms envelope me and I fall into the depths of his dark cloak._


	16. Waiting, it's a dangerous game

**A/N: Just a little bit of angst! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please let me know what you think by R&R!

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Watson

I was awakened by hands pulling me fiercely off the body of my dearest friend. I struggled feebly but ceased when I realized it is just a matter of time before I join him. I forced my eyes to remain stubbornly closed, refusing to allow myself a glimpse of my capture.

"Jones! Jones, over here. This one is in pretty bad shape as well."

A shadow fell over me and I felt my eyelids being lifted up against their own will. I found myself staring into the face of a man scarcely old enough to cease being called a youth. His hands were gentle and he turned my head gently to one side.

"Doctor Watson I presume?" His voice matched his countenance and its high pitch carried a distinct American accent.

I refused to answer the man before me and my silence elected a small chuckle from him. "You aint got nuttin' ta fear Doctor. The name's Jonathan Jones, one o' the members of the North Arlington Police Force that was a helpin' Mr. Holmes."

His words startled me and I opened my eyes which observed the muddy but distinctly official looking police uniform. "How?"

"That woman, McNally is takin' her inta custody. She led us t' ya."

"Holmes?"

"Just ya cool it Doctor. Yer my concern ri' now, ya hear?"

I shook my head and waves of dizziness engulfed me. I closed my eyes and sighed. I knew I could not face this world without him again. I just wished this strange man would leave me to die.

"Looky 'ere Doctor," he said, pressing two fingers gently against the back of my skull. Pain shot through me momentarily, but the only indication I gave was a deeply indrawn breath between my clenched teeth. "All ri'," he said quietly. He released my head and began examining my extremities.

My nostrils were suddenly assaulted by the strong odor of iodine and the familiar burning sensation filled me as the man applied the substance to my cut and bleeding wrists.

"All ri," he said once again. He squatted on his haunches and favored me with a slight smile. "Do you think ya can stand?"

I was no invalid but I lacked the desire to leave my sitting place. My life, so long as I believed, had finished when he drew his last shaky breath.

"Come on now Doctor," my persistent and misguided savior said once again. He suddenly stood and put both his hands under my elbows. Very slowly he brought me to my feet. I looked around the room and did not see the prostrate form of my friend. Panic was once again beginning to fill me.

"Holmes? Where is he?"

"He's in the 'ands of Mr. Meriwether, he is," the American answered genially. "Come along now," he linked his arm with mine and we proceeded to leave the dank house of death.

When the cool night air kissed my face I looked 'round and saw an ambulance directly in front of me. Harnessed to the rather large carriage were what appeared to be the most powerful set of horses I ever laid eyes on. They snorted and pawed the ground impatiently.

"'Ere now Doctor," my companion said, leading me to the carriage only to find myself face to face with an elderly man wearing a dark suit.

"You must be Doctor Watson?"

I nodded but said nothing more.

"I am Doctor Louis Vernon-Smith."

Once again I nodded.

"Will you sit please?" He asked, indicating one of the leather upholstered chairs. After I sat down heavily, leaning against one of the walls, the driver whipped up the horses and we were speeding off to a destination unknown to me.

"Doctor Watson?"

"Yes?" My voice was as fatigued as my body.

"Doctor Watson," he said, his fingers almost immediately began exploring the back of my skull.

"Yes?"

He muttered something under his breath then smiled faintly. "It feels as though you've sustained-"

"An occipital hairline fracture," I interrupted.

He was taken aback momentarily. "Yes how did--"

"I am a Doctor."

"Yes of course."

"There is nothing you can do for a fracture so I must be careful not to crack my skull against anything." I then leaned forward and peered into his wizened face. I felt my body grow as taunt as a bowstring and my eyes burn with intensity. "Holmes. Where is he?"

"Doctor Watson, I'm sorry…"

I raised my hand to silence him and bowed my head. I forced back the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes."I do not know much about his condition," the doctor continued doggedly. "I am not his overseeing physician."

I nodded and the rest of the ride was in silence. When we arrived at the hospital, Doctor Vernon-Smith ushered me into the bare waiting room. The floorboards were worn down from decades of pacing feet and the arms of the uncomfortable chairs were also worn from nervously fidgeting fingers. The air was tense with fear and as I stared wide-eyed at the pale faces of my fellow companions, I could not help but be filled with a sense of impending dread.

I sat down heavily in one of the chairs in the corner of the room. I know not how long I waited for every moment seemed like an hour. I attempted to hide myself from the prying eyes of the men and women I was sharing the waiting room with. Their eyes all focused on me, my bruises and black eye; wondering what happened to me was probably something to take their minds off their own fears.

A harried man sat down heavily next to me, his face as pale as Holmes's. He turned to me and raised a set of blond eyebrows. "Are you all ri'?"

In no mood for conversation I simply nodded.

"Ya shure? 'Cause you look a might--"

"Listen I'm fine!" I barked angrily. When the man visibly started at my outburst I lowered my eyes sheepishly. "I am sorry," I muttered slowly. "I am on edge, that's all."

The man took no offence at my exclamation and waved my apologies away with his hand. It was a gesture that Holmes had done on numerous occasions. _Holmes. I might never see him wave at words impatiently again._ I shook my head in attempt to stop the macabre flow of thoughts.

"Aint we all! Yer wife Mister?"

I shook my head by way of answering.

"Your child?"

Once again I shook my head. I wished for nothing more than to be left alone.

"Yer parent?"

"My dearest friend," I muttered quietly. "It's my fault."

The stranger clapped a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Aye, don't think like that mate. When sumthin' 'appens, we all want to blame ourselves, 'fer it's easier 'an facin' the truth; it was all in the books from the beginnin'."

I smiled briefly at his optimistic attitude but said nothing.

The stranger opened his mouth to say something more but was stopped when a doctor clad in white stepped through the heavy metal door. "Ashworth? Mr. Ashworth?"

The stranger stood stiffly, fear was etched in his face. "Me."

"Come with me please Mr. Ashworth," the doctor said.

The stranger offered me a strained smile and squeezed my shoulder before leaving the room and leaving me once again to my own thoughts. My mind kept rehashing the night's events, turning them over and forcing me to wonder how I could have prevented such a tragedy.

Suddenly more footsteps were heard, heavy boots this time, not the gentle scuffle of doctor's shoes. "Doctor Watson?"

The gruff voice that spoke my name caused me to look up. I found myself staring into the much lined face of a senior police inspector. "That is my name," I said.

"The boys said I'd recognize ya. Ya like ya gone through hell an' back Doctor, if ya don't mind me sayin'."

"Is there something you wanted sir?" I asked tiredly.

The policeman nodded. "Doctor Watson, this might be a bit awkward, hell it's downri' loony ta me."

"Speak pray and do it quickly," my nerves were stretched to their limit as it were and I was in no mood for a bumbling member of the police force attempting to spare my feelings.

He flushed crimson and then nodded. "This woman suh," he said thickly. "She…we were brinin' her inta custody ya know? Cause Mr. 'Olmes, 'e gave us the prop'r infemation ta convict 'er fer plottin' ta murder 'er husband. An' when we were a bringin' 'er down ta the station, she started a-bawling an' begin' ta see ya. I wouldn't norm'ly grant such a loony request but Mr. 'Olmes, 'e said ta do what we could fer 'er an'…"

I closed my eyes and leaned back against the hard chair. I could not believe it; Sandra Verne wanted to see me. "Haven't I been through enough Inspector?"

"Yeah ya 'ave, but I got me orders suh. Are ya willin' ta see 'er?"

Realizing I did not have a choice, for if I said no, he would stand there and try to reason with me for an hour. "All right."

"All ri' thank ya kindly Doctor. Ya say when ya wanner outta yer hair an' she'll be gone quicker 'n ya can say yer name."

Once again I nodded and, with eyes closed, listened to the retreating footsteps of the policeman. I was not granted much of a reprieve, for a few moments later I heard a shuffling gait and the unmistakable sound of chains rattling.

"John?"

The voice was so subdued, such a contrast from the voice I had previously associated with the woman that I opened my eyes immediately. I was mildly surprised when I saw that her face was haggard and drawn, the corners of her mouth and eyes etched with fear. She made a gesture of greeting with her hands, which were tightly secured in police bracelets. I was, at that moment, filled with such hatred for the woman that I was unable to speak.

"John?" She asked again when I did not respond.

"What?" I asked testily.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

"How is Mr. H--"

"In surgery," I said wearily. "I know nothing more."

"Oh John I am so sorry."

"Pray spare me your maudlin apologies," I barked. "It is your fault that he is even now fighting for his life!"

My raised voice caught the attention of the other people in the waiting room. Various eyes stared at us, most likely wondering what a strange pair we made, the man with the black eye and the woman in handcuffs.

"John I did not--"

"It does not matter what you meant Sandra," I said, allowing my words to ooze with sarcasm. "Your intentions, however noble they may have seemed at the time, do not change my friend's condition."

"John, if you would only allow me a few moments." Her voice took on a pleading tone but I was unmoved.

"There is nothing to say! You brought us here from London on the premise that you wanted us to find your husband's killer. It is now clear that you had him murdered and simply brought us here so Culverton Smith could take revenge on Holmes."

"There is more than that John. I am not as heartless as you believe! Please, for the sake of what we had together--"

Shame suddenly filled me as I was forced to recall that one senseless moment of weakness before her hearth. "We had nothing!" I bellowed. "You simply used me, blinded me with your womanly charms so I could not…no! So I would not see the guttersnipe you really are. Had I listened to Holmes instead of believing you, he would be sitting here next to me right now!"

Sandra Verne grasped my hands and held them tightly between her own. She looked imploringly into my face but my heart stirred not an inch. It was as hard as flint. "Culverton killed my William!" She cried suddenly.

"You allowed it."

"He seduced me, made me believe your friend committed some grievous sin, wrongly accusing Culverton of murder. I was ignorant John! Surely you must realize that! Stupidly, I believed him! But now I know the monster he was. Both you and Mr. Holmes are good men!"

"The realization came too late," I said, my voice suddenly listless.

"John--"

"Why are you here? What do you want of me? Why must you torment me, remind me of the part I played in Holmes's injuries?"

"I want you to know that I am sorry. That I never meant to hurt you or Mr. Holmes. I don't want you to hate me John."

My rage filled eyes bored fiercely into her tear filled ones. "I hope you hang for what you have done," my voice dropped down to a threatening growl. "Death is even too good for you."

"John, you do not understand. I love you," she cried.

"I do not want your love," I spat. "I simply want you to know the pain you have caused me. For even if Holmes lives, you and Smith will have succeeded, for you will have killed something between us. Oh, not outwardly of course; Holmes would never accuse me of anything. But inside, he will be living with the knowledge that I betrayed him. He will never be able to trust my loyalties again for they were not with him during this investigation! You have destroyed our friendship and the brotherly love we share!" Realizing I was becoming quite emotional, I quickly averted my head from the woman standing before me. I glanced at the two police inspectors. "Get her out of here."

"All ri' Doctor Watson," the elder said with a nod of his head. "All ri'." He roughly grabbed Sandra by the forearm. "'Ere now, ya've said yer piece."

As she was being led away, I was able to hear her shrill cries of 'John don't hate me.' Ordinarily, the pain in her voice would have pierced my heart but I was completely numb. I could feel nothing but fear and the burning pain of my own guilt.

"Doctor Watson?" It was the dark haired young policeman.

"Yes?"

"You'll let us know 'ow he is, ri'?"

I nodded but said not a word.

"He'll be all ri' Doctor."

"Please," I said glumly. "Just leave me some peace."

"All ri' Doctor," he said giving my arm a gentle squeeze. "Ya take care o' yerself an' give me best ta Mr. Holmes."

When I was left alone, with the prying eyes of my fellow companions, I dropped my head into the palms of my hands and cried.

Waves of guilt and anguish washed over me, releasing themselves in wild, animalistic sobs, causing my entire frame to shake violently. My strong façade finally broke and I was hit full force by memories of the previous month. How I had led him to believe he no longer mattered to me! How Smith had almost manipulated me into believing Holmes was simply taking advantage of my sensitive nature and was not grievously wounded!

It occurred to me at that moment that the only reason Holmes was fighting for his life was because he attempted to save my worthless one! The realization caused me to groan and I buried my face more deeply in my palms.

_I cannot bear your death a second time! _How I uttered those words in fear and was now, facing that possibility. However, this time the weight of his death would be on my shoulders.

'Never hurt you again,' his words reverberated in my ears. He was showing remorse for his previous actions, asking me for the forgiveness which I had never verbally given him. If he died, it would be without the knowledge that I forgave him.

So lost in thought was I that I did not realize another member of the medical staff entered the waiting room. Only when I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder that I realized someone was standing before me. I raised my tear-streaked face and found myself staring at a man of roughly two and sixty years. His green eyes appeared huge behind his thick spectacles and his thinning white hair was combed to one side. When he spoke, he had a high, reedy voice.

"Doctor Watson?"

"I am he."

"I am Doctor Fredrick Jones."

I forced back my tears and stood stiffly. I grasped his hand in my own, determined to show and treat him with professional courtesy. "Doctor."


	17. From Darkness Back Into the Light

**AN: Thank you to all those who have read and all those who have been kind enough to review my fic thus far. Just a quick note about this chapter...I did somewhat twist an event in Doctor Watson's life to suit my own ficitious needs. However, since the event was never specifically mentioned in the Canon and it is simply a matter of dates I felt the situation could me altered. (After all, we know the good doctor was constantly changing dates!) I hope you enjoy this chapter and the rest of Murder in the Copper Mines. Please R&R!

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"You will come with me please," he said, turning without a word toward the set of double doors. Silently I followed him out of the waiting room and into a cool corridor. Immediately, the harsh smell of antiseptic and chloroform assaulted my nostrils.

He spoke not a word as we walked and, with a great deal of effort, I managed to quash my urge to ask him a multitude of questions regarding my friend's precarious position. I could glean not an intimation regarding Holmes for Dr. Jones's face was an impassive mask. I followed him blindly, as though I was a damned soul following Death to my final resting place.

We walked through a veritable maze of corridors until we came to a heavy looking wooden door that was marked by a gold nameplate which read: Doctor Jones. The doctor opened the door and motioned me inside.

The room in which I found myself greatly resembled my own consulting room back in London, with its ornate desk and comfortable looking patient chairs. A large bookcase dominated one wall and was overflowing with various medical texts.

Doctor Jones closed the door behind him and then sat down behind his desk. He motioned for me to occupy a chair but I declined, my nerves being too tightly strung to sit for any length of time. He nodded in a singular understanding fashion and then offered me a cigar from the elaborately carved box which sat on his desk.

Impatiently I shook my head. I wanted to know the fate of my dearest friend and I wanted to know it quickly.

"As you like Doctor," he said, making a great show of lighting the cigar. He inhaled the smoke gratefully and then peered at me through the fumes.

"You are," he asked, briefly dunking his head to consult scrap of foolscap which was resting on his desk, "Doctor John H. Watson?"

"Yes."

"What is your relationship with Mr. Holmes?"

"I am his most intimate friend and his personal physician," I responded automatically.

He nodded. "I see. I am glad to hear that you are his doctor for if you were only a friend I couldn't give ya this information."

"I am, so have no fear Doctor," I reassured quickly.

"Mr. Holmes has suffered from severe internal bleeding. He lost a great deal of blood."

I nodded impatiently, in effort to force back the fear that so desperately wanted to be freed. "Yes Doctor, I was able to diagnose as much."

He was unperturbed by my statement and took another long drag on his cigarette, filling the room with acrid smoke. "His stomach and large intestine have both suffered extreme trauma."

"Yes I too diagnosed that." Suddenly my nerves could stand no more of slowness. "I care naught for the details! Will he live?" There must have been such raw, unguarded hope in my voice for Doctor Jones could not meet my gaze.

"As of right now Doctor Watson," he said, his voice was barely above a whisper. "It does not look promising."

His words cut worse than an armada of daggers and I was obliged to grasp the wooden desk with all my strength to keep myself from falling, for all strength left my limbs. The room began to spin and I was forced to fall back into the chair, as though I was literally struck by the Doctor's words.

"Of course his condition could improve," the man added hastily.

I could not open my mouth for fear of my emotions betraying me. I simply sat there in stunned silence. I swallowed several times before I trusted my vocal chords to work properly. "But it's unlikely," I croaked.

Solemnly, he nodded. "There is not much more I can tell you. If you'd--"

"I want to see him," I barked almost savagely. When I saw the startled look on the physician's face I forced myself to control my emotions. "May I see him?"

The Doctor considered my request for some moments. "He is not awake Doctor Watson," he replied at length. He cleared his throat and glanced at his desktop. "He may never wake again."

I swallowed hard. "I am aware of that," whispered tightly. "But please, may I see him? I am not one to swallow my pride easily Doctor Jones, but I will beg you, if that is what it takes. You just said I may not be able to see him a…" I allowed my words to trail off when a sob threatened to enter my voice.

The elder man seemed to understand my unvoiced thought. He leaned over his desk and placed a firm hand on my shoulder. It was the first inkling of humanity the man had shown. "I suppose it would not hurt," he said softly. "So long as it is brief."

I nodded to show I understood. Holmes's health was precarious and any additional stress placed upon his body could kill him.

"If you will follow me Doctor," the physician said, rising from his chair. "I shall take you to Mr. Holmes."

As much as I wanted to see my friend, I remained rooted to my chair. A part of me did not want to face the reality of the situation. A part of me was hoping this was some horrible nightmare from which I would soon awaken. So long as I remained in Doctor Jones's office, I was free to imagine the severity of my friend's injuries was far less than they were. But I knew the moment I crossed the threshold to his room and was able to see his frail state before me, I would know the truth. And the truth I could not bear.

I could not bear to see Holmes weak and dying. For he was my strength, he was the rock upon which I leaned. During the time of my Mary's death, Holmes had, in his own way, assuaged my grief. He kept my mind occupied whether or not he was consciously aware of his actions. He sat with me before the hearth many a night during that black time in my life, nary saying a word. Simply keeping me company and enveloping us both in the comforting cocoon of smoke from his black briar pipe.

The day of her funeral, Holmes there, standing beside me both in the church and at her gravesite. He did not offer me any words of comfort, for such an action was not within his nature, nor did he tell me how Mary was in a better place, for he did not want to mock my grief. His presence alone gave me the strength I needed to pull myself from the mire of depression and to return to the land of the living.

I could not face the reality that my rock was quickly crumbling and I would, once again, be alone in the world. So I remained seated in the hard chair across from Doctor Jones's desk.

"Doctor Watson, did you not say you wanted to see Mr. Holmes?"

Slowly I nodded, for there was nothing more I could do. I did not trust myself to speak for fear I would loose my tenuous hold over my emotions. The time had come, I was forced to face my biggest fear. With the unsteadiness of a newborn calf, I rose to my feet and followed Doctor Jones down a series of long corridors.

We eventually paused outside of a heavy wooden door. My nerve failed me at that moment and I stood trembling as though I suffered from ague.

"You do not have to see him Doctor Watson," the physician said kindly. "Perhaps--"

"No," I said with fierce intensity. Holmes was willing to throw his life away for me. I owed it to him to stand by his side during his last hours. With a trembling hand I grasped the door handle. It turned easily underneath my sweaty palm.

"It must be brief," was Doctor Jones's caveat to me before he retreated to his office, leaving me standing in Purgatory.

I took a deep breath and crossed the threshold, steeling myself for the sight that lay before me. I softly closed the door behind me and stepped into the darkened room. The flickering of a candle flame was the room's only illumination, and its dance caused shadows to materialize.

I swallowed hard and approached the figure that lay prostrate on the bed. My stomach knotted and my heart pounded with grief when I saw him. His head was swathed in bandages and his skin was a pallid color. His lips were still tinged blue.

His body was covered with a light afghan and he appeared to be shivering for his limbs twitched and his teeth chattered slightly. The afghan, I knew, had nothing to do with keeping him warm, but was used to hide the true nature of his injuries and to ward off infection.

My mouth was cotton and as I moved closer I saw the faint rise and fall action of his chest and heard a faint wheeze as air struggled to enter his lungs. With a heavy heart I slumped in the hard chair next to his bed, and dropped my head into my hands.

The tears I had been trying for so long to repress spilt out suddenly in great torrents. My body wracked with sobs I tried to stifle with my hands. I had no previous ken of such searing agony. Not even when my Mary died did I feel such intense pain. The sadness I felt at Reichenbach, I thought grimly, was nothing compared to my current emotions, for then I was not plagued by guilt.

Gently I took one of his hands in my own and squeezed it softly, willing him to be aware of my presence. "I am so sorry old man," I cried softly. "I am so sorry."

I sat, his hand in mine for several minutes, allowing only my harsh sobs to break the utter silence of the room.

The door opened suddenly and Doctor Jones entered the room. I squeezed Holmes's hand tightly. I was not yet ready to leave my friend's side.

"Doctor Watson," the physician said with a nod of his head. He seemed in no hurry for me to vacate my chair.

"Doctor Jones," I returned quickly. I forced my voice to remain steady.

"You may stay yet," he said, apparently seeing anxiety written across my face. "I simply entered to see if you require anything."

I shook my head in the negative.

"I simply would like to check his condition. Since you are a medical man, you may stay for the examination."

I quickly released Holmes's hand and crossed the room. I stood with my arms folded across my chest facing the opposite wall. I could not bear to see the true extend of his injuries. "Pray carry on Doctor. You are now his physician, there is no need for me to look on," I said by way of explaining my weakness.

Doctor Jones nodded and I heard him cross the room. "How are you today Mr. Holmes?" He asked the unconscious figure of my friend. Holmes did not respond and I heard the rustling of bedclothes.

My heart pounded in my chest for the examination seemed to take much longer than necessary. Several times I heard Doctor Jones tsk in the negative and out of the corner of my eye I could see him shake his head. A few moments later he was once again at my side.

"No improvement," he whispered softly.

I nodded to show I understood. I cleared my throat and faced him. "Is there any deterioration of his condition?"

It was when I saw the doctor's face darken slightly that I had my answer. "I would appreciate a direct answer to my question Doctor. I am a practicing physician and am not a child. I was a doctor in Afghanistan during the war and have had fellow comrades die under my hands because of severe infection during surgery. I pray you to--" I swallowed quickly, my mind conjuring up both the bloody battlefield of Maiwand and the drawn faces of my fellow comrades suffering in agony. Holmes was at least in a hospital. "—be precise as to the details of his condition." The phrase sounded strange coming from my own lips rather than those of my friend but I refused myself time to reflect on the irony of it.

"Doctor Watson, there is very little chance of survival," he replied after a moment's hesitation. "The longer he remains unconscious, the better chance of serious brain damage occurring. Even if he is to physically survive, which there is little likelihood of, mentally he could be destroyed."

I nodded but said nothing else. My entire world seemed to come crashing down around me but I refused to let Doctor Jones know how his words affected me. His words jarred my memory to another time, another place:

_The hospital waiting room was empty, the chair beneath me was hard but I did not notice it. My fingers absently drummed staccato on the worn arm of the chair. My eyes were glued to the heavy swinging oak door, praying that any moment a doctor would come through and end the agony of waiting. _

_Eventually my wish was granted and the door was swung open by a stout bald man. He approached my cherished and nodded solemnly. Such was the attitude of physicians in London. 'Are you Doctor John H. Watson?" He asked him, his voice devoid of emotion. _

_I nodded and stood, offering him my most professional courtesy. "I am. And you are?"_

_"I am Doctor Aaron Cain." He extended a short, pudgy hand to me, which I shook. _

_"You are the head surgeon I assume?"_

_It was his turn to nod. "Yes, I have overseen your wife's situation."_

_My mouth suddenly grew dry and it was an effort to speak. Although I had wanted news only a few moments before, suddenly I did not want to hear this man's words. The life of my dear Mary hung in his hands, he had seen her as I had not. He knew what would become of her and I was suddenly frightened of hearing his diagnosis._

_"I understand," I muttered quickly._

_"Doctor Watson, being I am speaking to another medical man, I will not insult your intelligence by giving you false hopes."_

_"I appreciate that Doctor."_

_"Your wife's condition is very serious. I highly doubt she will last the night…"_

"Doctor Watson?" Suddenly Dr. Jones's voice jarred me from the recesses of my memory.

"Yes?"

"Are you all right? You look extremely pale."

I shook my head. "Yes thank you Doctor, I am fine."

_I highly doubt she will last the night…Doctor Watson, there is very little chance of survival…last the night...little chance…survival…_

"Are you certain? Here, allow me to examine your head. I have been informed that you are suffering from a--"

"I don't give a damn about my injuries!" I barked, rounding fiercely on the doctor. "My dearest friend in the world lies there dying and you are concerned about a minor occipital bone fracture?"

"Doctor Watson, pray calm yourself. You're raised voice will not do well for Mr. Holmes's nerves. You also do not know the full extent of your own--"

"I am unconcerned about my own injuries!" I fairly shouted. All of the fear and frustration I had been harboring came out in a giant rush, all of which was directed at Doctor Jones. "Honestly! I should think--"

"Watson?"


	18. Did I Create A Dream?

**Hope you all enjoy the latest enstallment! Please R&R!

* * *

**The voice was so soft and so sudden that both Jones and I stared at one another, our heads cocked slightly to the side, both of us unsure if it was real or imagined.

"Watson?"

There was no mistaking it! Although extremely feeble and soft, I knew that voice! Completely ignoring Dr. Jones's outburst of surprise, I turned round and rushed to my friend's bedside with such speed I could hardly believe it. I grasped his hand tightly in my own. "I'm here old man," I whispered hoarsely. "I'm right here."

His eyelids twitched slightly and he attempted to open his eyes but the effort seemed too much for him. He sighed in irritation. "Watson?"

The utter confusion in his voice cut me to the core. I could not erase the nagging feeling that this could be our last conversation in this world. Tears sprang into my eyes at that thought. "It's all right Holmes. I'm here."

"Doctor Watson," I raised my hand and Jones grew silent per my mute request. I knew if Holmes believed there was another in the room he would nary say another word.

"I'm right here Holmes," I said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

His mouth ticked slightly and his lips formed the saddest smile I have ever seen. "Watson, when did you develop such a temper?"

I suddenly laughed though my tears. He was teasing me; it was a good sign. "Oh Holmes."

"Watson?" His body jerked upward so suddenly that it caught both Jones and me by surprise. A sharp hiss of pain escaped his lips and with trembling hands I eased him back against the pillows. The unpredicted action caused Jones to open his mouth in protest but he shut it when he saw me successfully soothe my friend.

"Easy Holmes," I said gently. "You mustn't over do it."

Perspiration broke out on the pale forehead. "Watson are you all right?"

It took me a moment to realize what he meant. His thoughts must have been muddled for he was suddenly, in his mind, back in Smith's lair. "Yes Holmes, I am quite well."

"Are you lying?"

"No, of course not."

"Good," he whispered. "Good." Quickly he forced his eyes open and I peered into their grey depths. Their light was dimmed considerably from both pain and drugs. "Watson…" he coughed causing a small drip of blood to trickle down his chin. He took a shaky breath. He tried to turn his head to stare into my face but with gentle hands I restrained his movement.

"You must conserve strength my dear fellow," I gently admonished.

Once again he managed a tick of a smile. "Watson…still…clucking about…like a…mother hen."

I smiled and allowed a sound much like a laugh and a sob to issue from my throat. "You know I've only your best interest at heart."

"I…I cannot see very well," he said, his eyes squinting against even the soft candle glow. "I…I want….want to see…your face."

I complied. Never releasing his hand, I positioned my chair so I was peering down directly into his pale and haggard face.

"Is this better Holmes?"

"Y…yes," he muttered. His eyes stared earnestly into my face. "Y…you've had a bad time of it."

I chuckled at his candid observation. "I am fine Holmes."

Once again he stared at me, his gaze unwavering. "I am so sorry…so sorry old man…"

"Holmes please--"

"Watson, I must talk to you."

"Not now Holmes," I admonished gently. "You need your strength."

He seized my hand tightly and turned his great face toward me. "No!"

The masterfulness of his tone startled me. I had not expected such force from one so weak. "No," he repeated more gently. "It cannot wait."

"Doctor Watson I really must insist! Your visit has lasted long enough and he is becoming agitated--" Jones said quickly approaching us.

"I will decide when I've become agitated," my friend barked fiercely at the doctor. It seemed that suddenly some of his strength was returning to him. He once again faced me. "Watson, my dear friend, I am so sorry."

"Enough Holmes," I did not want to hear apologies spew forth from his lips when my own conscience was so guilt ridden.

"Can you ever forgive me? I did not mean for you to suffer so much from my follies. I did not mean to hurt you, do you believe me? I did not mean to hurt you!"

I shook my head and attempted to hush him. "It is all forgotten Holmes," I whispered. "It is all forgotten."

"No," his voice was once again growing weak. "Smith, he…he…he forced you to doubt me."

His words stabbed my heart as I was forced to once again relive Smith's accusations. _ He's faked his own death in the past._ "I never doubted you Holmes, I could never doubt you."

Suddenly anger filled his countenance. "Do not lie to me Watson! I know what you were thinking and I cannot blame you. I apologize for all my follies, do you understand? I apologize for all the injustices I have shown you. But please, for mercy's sake, grant me forgiveness for I cannot bear the thought of you hating me."

"Stop it Holmes!" I pleaded quickly. "I do not, could never hate you, surely you know that. You are my dearest friend and you always will be. For God's sake Holmes, it is I who have treated you atrociously. I was the one who forced you to doubt my loyalties in the first place. How stupid could I have possibly been to have…" sobs threatened to overtake me and I was forced to swallow the rest of my words.

We stared into one another's eyes for several moments, and it seemed to me that our unvoiced thoughts transferred from one to the other. I knew at that moment I could never leave him, no matter what the circumstances.

He once again smiled, this time it reached his eyes. He offered my hand a slight squeeze. "Get…get some rest…my dear fellow…" he closed his eyes and once again succumbed to Morpheous.

I sat in stunned silence, his hand still in mine. Had he really just spoken to me? Or did I simply dream it?

"Doctor Watson?"

I looked up and saw astonishment written on Doctor Jones's features. "Yes?"

He lowered his eyes. "I cannot believe what I just witnessed."

"Nor can I," I replied.

"I was wrong Doctor," he said softly. "Your friend has proven me wrong."

"How so?"

The doctor crossed the room and placed two fingers on my friend's sinewy neck. After a few moments, he nodded and removed his hand. "His pulse is stronger. Perhaps he will survive after all."

I shed tears of joy and smiled at Doctor Jones. "He enjoys a flair for the dramatic." I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. The worst was over…Holmes had braved the storm. Exhaustion suddenly overtook me and I slipped into a deep five fathom sleep.


	19. You Are My Home

Three weeks later, Holmes was released from the hospital into my custody and we boarded a steamer boat headed for London. Much to my surprise, Holmes was the most obedient patient I had ever experienced during our voyage, listening to every word I said.

It was some weeks later, when he was somewhat stronger and we were sitting in our Baker Street rooms, that I questioned his queer obedience on the steamer.

"You know my methods Watson," he barked as I changed the dressings on his abdomen. "Honestly Watson must you continue to fuss?"

"All I know Holmes is that since we've returned to London you've been as obstinate as ever to my medical advice," I said with an exasperated sigh. "I am starting to wish we had never gotten off that God forsaken boat."

He smiled and chuckled softly. "Honestly Watson, my life was quite literally in your hands. Do you think I wanted to anger you?"

His words hurt slightly until I realized the hidden depths of meaning behind them. He would never admit to me again he felt remorse for his actions but in that joking statement the meaning of his words were as clear as if he had shouted them aloud.

To show that I understood, I patted his hand and then resumed my own chair. He slowly stood and crossed to the window where he kept vigil over Baker Street.

"A verus amicus I've nunquam notus. Gratias ago vos pro vestri diligo," he whispered into the night air. "Gratias ago vos pro vestry diligo."

* * *

**I want to say thank you to all of those who read this work of fiction and those who have been kind enough to review. Your support means a great deal to me. I have ended the story with a Latin phrase much like Doyle had ended many of his own stories. My Latin is somewhat weak and I did have help with this translation, so if anyone recognizes any mistakes I would greatly appreciate it if you let me know. For those of you who do no know Latin, here is a rough translation of Holmes's ending line: "A truer friend I have never known. Thank you for your love." Thank you again and I do hope you enjoyed reading 'Murder in the Copper Mines' as much as I enjoyed writing it!  
**  



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